


After

by KhamanV



Category: Lost
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 65,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KhamanV/pseuds/KhamanV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one story ends, another begins. Hurley's new role will bring new challenges and big decisions. Meanwhile, his assistant just hangs on as the island world he knew changes around him. Post-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been complete for some time at That Other Collection and is being newly archived here. I continue to apologize for the extremely long hiatus that was taken during the last third of the story.

" _History is just one damned thing after another." ~ Alfred Toynbee_

1.

_Friday Fish Fry – The Conversation – Knowledge From Within – Nostalgia - Of Scientists and Lawyers - The First Decision_

High above the island, a single set of fading contrails marred the hazy blue sky. The plane itself was long gone; precious cargo fled back to the sane world that Hurley realized he was beginning to think of as some distant, impossible place where he'd never belonged. It didn't frighten him, but the knowledge that he wasn't frightened was still unsettling. He should be frightened, he believed. Terrified, like he was when Jack thrust the water at him. Instead, just uncertainty. The role he'd been given still felt odd in his mind, some ill-fitted robe meant for some other lost messiah. He looked at the contrails, brow knitted as his thoughts mixed together, a jumble of confusion, worry, and ideas. He shifted uncomfortably on the low, wide rock that sat on the edge of the beach.

Next to him, on another, similar rock, sat Benjamin Linus. The smaller man didn't spare a glance for the sky. Instead, he kept his gaze cast down on a small fire, a spread of thick cloth on his lap, and the fish he was busily descaling with a knife. "Islands rise and fall, Hugo; demons and gods might die, but a man's still gotta eat," he'd said when Hurley had come back from a long walk and found him up to his knees in the water, fishing with makeshift tools. He hadn't said much else since accepting the job Hurley had set out for him. In a tent some ways down the beach, Desmond still rested. He had been unconscious since his rescue.

Hurley waited until the fish was beheaded and the guts tossed into the fire. He watched Ben spear the two halves and begin toasting them, carefully. He cleared his throat. Ben tilted his head a little at the sound but still said nothing. "So... there's still a few people on the island."

"The ones that went with Locke." Ben's voice was low and flat. No verdict on their path was audible, just a simple fact. Hurley still felt defensive on their behalf.

"They were pretty scared, dude. They thought they were going to die."

Ben lifted his shoulders in a light motion, dropped them again. "They may well have died whatever they chose. I'm really not judging them, Hugo. It was a bad situation. They didn't have all the facts. Truly, none of us did."

"Not even sure I do." Hurley leaned back. "I didn't get a load of magic knowledge in my head or anything. Just... stuff. Like a sensation."

"Mm." The tone was noncommittal. The fish was turned over and the tone turned dry. "I'd kill for some cajun seasoning." Hurley shot him a look. "Just kidding." A soft sigh from crooked lips. "I don't know what to recommend there. Some might like to leave. Some might stay. There's plenty of room on the island if you're not going to be picky about their choices. Houses, caves. In fact, I know of a very nice vacant foot you yourself might be interested in. Well lived in. Some fire damage."

"I never know if you're joking, dude." He rolled his eyes. "Weirdest sense of humor."

"Assume I am. Except when I'm not." Ben shifted in his seat, moved the fish as the thinner parts began to blacken slightly. "If they do wish to leave, that presents some issues to be worked out."

Hurley shrugged. "I don't mind if they leave. I think the whole 'never leave' thing is crap. Tell people they can't do something and they freak out. Look at we did."

A tiny quirk of a smile. "Not the issue. I don't advise moving the island every time a resident wants to go shopping. Often problematic, a bit hard on the bodies of the locals apparently. Also, the landing for the departed is less than pleasant. There's still the boat, but right now it's on Hydra and god alone knows if the others stopped to moor it properly. They were likely in some rush."

"Okay. We'll get the boat, that isn't a problem." Hurley paused, surprised at himself. The words had come in a confident rush. He _knew._ The boat was lightly anchored. A long swim or a raft or... or even a good current and a lucky wind and the boat would be on the main island. Ben raised his head and looked at him. "Dude." The expression on Ben's face creased. "I'm alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Totally different topic. If I can ask." He watched Ben pull the fish out of the fire and lay them on a pair of separate cloths. He had to admit, it smelled great.

" _Le dîner est servi._ What did you want to know?" Ben didn't look up.

"What's up with all your off island stuff? Do you – you, the others, whatever - really have a network out there and all that?"

"I do." Another light shrug. "You'd like the details." He glanced up to note Hurley's nod as he handed over one of the fish halves. His head tilted slightly and his voice became clinical. A lecturer's tone. "When Dharma was removed from the island, all of their knowledge, their _toys_ were left behind. Charles Widmore, who had been engaging in some off island activity himself, read up on some of those ideas. He was a very clever man, very tactical, and he knew the worth of a good idea. When we exiled him and I assumed the role he'd played, he took those ideas straight to a company he'd had apparently had some business with. His reputation was very good, and he was very smart about his backstory. His rise was very quick and it wasn't long before he'd managed to nest himself into a new little kingdom and give it his own name. In reflection, I'm quite sure he had it planned for a long time.

"Meanwhile, as I was settling into my new role, much as you yourself will have some current sympathy for, the notes from Jacob came unabated. Little errands. Do this. Make sure of that." A brief note of distaste. "And eventually I received notes that sent me off-island. Learn things. Go there and see."

"What'd Jacob want with you off the island?" Hurley tilted his head as Ben's expression grew dark.

"Ultimately? I think he wanted to make sure Charles never forgot the island. To goad him. My role was as hare to hound. I learned some... dark habits out there, Hugo. I learned the things that made your friends very frightened of me. And I had to, because Charles made sure I couldn't come home for some little time. I learned what it was like to be hunted. And eventually, when I came home, my daughter-" His voice dipped slightly and Hurley felt a brief shudder of sympathy. "Didn't recognize me so well any longer and Richard had formally stabilized our own little fortress off island. Mittelos." He took a contemplative bite of the fish. "We followed the example set. Took ideas, but used them more humbly. A variant of some quick-healing bandage, some genetic testing, biology. It looked very good on paper, and it should, because we made it functionally legitimate.

"The island and its people has a presence as a very small, very private bioscience firm with a minor army of lawyers, multiple bank accounts, and a nearly invisible management team that is often away 'on business.' The scientists and doctors we hire never ask questions because we pay very well and their work often goes to good ends. The lawyers know better than to ask. And they are paid very well. Money is not an issue, Hugo."

Hurley decided not to press about the ones who came to the island, like Juliet. Not then. "And I bet you're the CEO."

"No." The reply was quick as Ben turned his head to regard Hurley. "Just one of the assistants. We put Jacob's name in the major seat. It was a private joke Richard and I had. One of few."

"Is that everything?"

"Of course not, Hugo. I have more than a few separate contacts of my own." More dry humor in the voice. He finished his fish with delicate caution, wiped his fingers on the cloth, and set it all aside. "You're contemplating something."

Hurley stayed quiet for a while, not yet responding, as the sun began to set and birds began to call through the jungle. Ben watched him, watched the ocean, and waited.

"We should camp up, dude. Gather up the others in the morning." Hurley barely caught the sight of Ben tilting his head in agreement in the soft gloaming. "We'll get the boat. Send them back, whoever wants. Get Desmond home to his kid. That'll be good." He paused, took a deep breath. The bright blue eyes flickered to his face, questioning. He blurted out the rest. "And I'm gonna send you with them all. If that's alright!"

Blank puzzlement. "Wh-"

"Not forever or anything, dude!"

"I-"

"And I don't need you to hurt anyone or anything, we're not gonna do that anymore!"

"Hug-"

"So I want you to promise me that you won't." Hurley finished in a rush. Ben wasn't trying to speak anymore, just sitting there with his head cocked, eyes wide, and crooked lips slightly parted. "You promise?"

"...I promise. Hugo, what." He stopped. "Am I going to get interrupted again?" He blinked once, then again, rapidly. "I am comfortable assuming this isn't like the tale I just briefly outlined, but what _exactly_ do you think sending me out there is going to accomplish? What do you want?"

Hugo sat for a moment, mouth open, expression as confused as Ben felt. He knew what he wanted, but the explanation was harder to get across. "I want to help people, dude."

The response started as weird puff of exasperated breath. "If the next words out of your mouth are ' _spa resort'_ , I'm walking into the ocean." Ben's voice wasn't particularly serious, but the eyes were still wild and baffled.

"Spa resort." Ben immediately stood up. "I'm kidding!" He sat down again. "Can you stop staring? It's freaking me out."

"How the hell do you think I feel?"

"Look, you'll be right back. I just kinda want a sense of what things are like out there right now. I want you to check on Mittelos or whatever and make sure all your stuff's okay. Then you'll come back and tell me what you think and what's going on. And." He paused. "This is really important."

"Hugo."

"I want you to check on my folks. I want them to be okay. But you don't tell them where I am, don't approach them if you don't got to. Not yet. There's still going to be news and stuff following them and they don't need to be weirded out more. I want your lawyers to help them with that. Like... guardian angels and stuff."

Ben looked down, licked his lips and nodded. "That sounds more than fine, Hugo. I can do that. I'm not sure Hume will enjoy my company as we depart, as the last I saw him we were on poor terms, but I'll manage. It's not his problem. But what's the goal?"

"Spa resort." This time, the joke drew a wry, tired glance from the small man. "No, really. Just work with me on this. I'm crap at explaining, but I'm working on an idea. I really do want to help people. That's the entire thing. But I can't do it from here if we're locked away." Hurley dropped his own head to contemplate his shoes.

"I don't think we should be like that anymore. But I gotta think about some stuff first."

"All right. Whatever it is, Hugo, I'm in." He tilted his head in polite acquiescence, the eyes lidding in contemplation.

"Good, dude." He managed a smile. The conversation had gone a lot better than he'd thought it might. "That's great. Have a good night, get some rest."

"And you." Ben dipped into the shadows, leaving Hurley to his still-churning thoughts.


	2. Homecoming

_Homecoming – Thunderstruck - Screwdriver – Howdy, Neighbor! – Anthuriums and Progress_

Charlie fussed in his mother's arms. Not to the point of wailing and scrabbling, but that busy, babbling fidget of an active toddler that pulls in cooing bystanders like iron filings to a magnet. They clucked and hovered in their white antiseptic uniforms, tapped his nose while giggling, and offered chocolatey biscuits after giving his mother a look for her approval. Penelope Hume did so every time, absently helping to manage crumbs and smeared cocoa, her eyes never fully leaving the still ( _but breathing, thank God, he's breathing)_ form of her husband in the hospital bed. She was frightened to blink, to look away and then back and find him gone again. Every time the memory of waking up and finding her husband stolen from her flashed to the forefront of her mind, her grip tightened on their son and she would have to rock him gently to stop the startled tears. The furrow still wouldn't leave her brow, though she had cried out all her relief when he was wheeled back into the small, private room.

The note remained clenched in her other hand, the one most firmly wrapped around the little boy and the one free of chocolate specks. She'd read it once when the nurses handed it to her, didn't understand the words for the English they were, and read it again, that time refusing to believe them. The ink had smeared under the moisture that remained on Desmond's palm and then the sweat of her hand, but it would still be readable hours later, that fine copperplate shorthand. Two short sentences only, one on each side of the scrap of paper.

_It's over._

_I'm sorry._

It wasn't signed, but it didn't need to be. She could see him clearly in her mind, this memory like a scar. Like many other scars. The raised arm, the gun, the white jacket, the bumbling sounds of Charlie behind her, and then – here her memory tried to interpret, to see in different ways and try to understand – the trembling dip of the wrist less than a second before the blur of her husband's form took over the memory. _Had_ she really seen that?

The note crunched in her hand. It didn't ask for forgiveness. It didn't clarify what she'd seen.

_It doesn't matter. It's over, if I can believe that. Des is home. Des is home!_ Her lips trembled again and this time she was able to reach out and touch her husband. Charlie slipped away from her to wobble around the room as she stroked the sleeping man's cheek. Time passed as she reminded herself again and again that he was real.

"Mrs. Hume?"

Penelope gasped and looked up at the tall figure in the dark suit through bleary eyes. Perhaps it was one of the doctors. "Yes?"

He handed her an envelope. "You're being served, Mrs. Hume."

She blinked at him, the action making her vision temporarily worse. "Wh-what?"

"Have a nice day, ma'am. Glad your husband's back with you." He turned on his heel and left before she could manage another question or get a good look. Her mouth worked soundlessly as she fumbled the envelope open. Within was a thick sheaf of papers informing her in nearly impenetrable legalese that her inherited claims to her father's shares of Widmore Corporation were to be challenged in court.

Penelope's stomach settled somewhere in her feet. Her father was dead. She suspected – had imagined the possibility when the hospital called her. She hadn't known. No one had said. There had been no contact. Now, only a cold document that brought her a new challenge.

_No. It isn't over. Not all of it._

Despite a hundred memories of Charles Widmore to the contrary, Penelope Hume broke into tears at the sudden knowledge of loss. After a long, startled moment, Charlie began to add his own hearty wails.

. . .

_"This is Mary Lang, reporting in for Action 8 News! Behind me, John, you see the residence of two-time missing millionaire Hugo Reyes. Now, just a little while ago, we saw his mother, Mrs. Carmen Reyes, enter the home with an unidentified guest. We're hoping for a statement tonight."_

Daniel Norton watched the live broadcast with a blank expression. He remained seated, hands placed lightly atop the thin, black briefcase. He could sense the approaching storm behind him, huffing and muttering, weight shifting from foot to foot and then becoming the bang of stomping feet as the reporter banged on the door. Norton experienced it as if in stereo, watching the reporter on the TV, watching Mrs. Reyes out of the corner of his eye as she neared the door.

_"MI DIO!"_ she snarled, followed with other, more ornate Spanish invective. The door flung open. He watched the reporter take a half step back and then try to collect herself. The camera view wobbled.

_"Mrs. Reyes!"_ The voice chirped in that weird stereo and Norton ignored the brief sense of unreality. _"Do you have a statement about-"_

"I HAVE NO STATEMENT, YOU SQUEAKY LITTLE CHIPPIE! YOU TAKE YOUR CAMERA AND YOU GET AWAY FROM MY HOME. I HAVE LAWYERS, LITTLE GIRL. I WILL TELL YOU NOTHING ABOUT _MI BEBé!_ " The door slammed shut with a doubled crack of thunder.

Norton reflected for a moment about how Mrs. Reyes shouting voice was really not that much louder than what he'd experienced since arriving as a slightly suspicious guest. Perhaps he'd just gotten used to it that quickly. Meanwhile, on the TV, the reporter had now fully staggered back and was flashing the cut-off signal at the cameraman. The image went black for a split second and returned to a pair of startled newscasters sitting in a quiet, air-conditioned studio.

A shadow fell over the lawyer. He turned his face up to it with a pleasant, professional smile.

"Mr. Norton, you said? I'm very sorry about that." She clasped her hands in front of her, wrists trapped in a ruffle of green and blue fabric. The voice was still bombastic, though muted far from what he'd just overheard. "Would you like a glass of something?"

"Lemonade would be fine, Mrs. Reyes. Or a soda, whatever you had."

She huffed a little, her round face amused. "Ai-yi, I was thinking a screwdriver myself. You'll have the same."

"I-"

"Just a little one, you'll be fine." She patted his shoulder and began to move around the room. He heard the clink of glasses behind him. "Now, who do you say you represent?"

"I'm representing the interests of Mittelos Bioscience. We had a business deal being prepared with your son shortly before the Ajira flight." While technically a lie, he had been given a sheaf of papers that had been pre-dated, notarized, and signed by Reyes. Norton had developed a habit of not asking Mr. Linus questions beyond what he absolutely had to. He simply accepted the paperwork as the legal word of God.

"I knew nothing about that!" Another mutter as the sound of orange juice hitting the glass was replaced by the more ominous sound of glugging vodka. Norton had left his assistant in the car. He was suddenly thankful for his foresight as a large and overfilled glass entered his field of view. "He said nothing to me. Oh, my baby." Norton turned to see her hand placed over her heart and an expression of deep woe on her face. Dramatic, hammy even, but something about her sold the earnestness of the action. Her eyes narrowed at him and his throat began to close at the darkening storm that built. " _You_ know something."

Norton took a careful sip of liquid courage. "Mrs. Reyes, I'm happy to report that your son is fine, but-"

" _WHERE IS MY HUGO? YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW OR I TAKE YOUR COLON AND PICKLE IT IN A JAR! GOD WILL FORGIVE ME."_

Daniel Norton, a man who had in the course of his work engaged in cutthroat corporate takeovers, legally tried to steal adopted children, and bailed accused murderers out of jail, began to wish hell and torment on Benjamin Linus for sticking him with the job and not doing it his own damned self. He began to work heavily on the drink Mrs. Reyes had given him.

. . .

Rose Nadler watched Hurley shuffle carefully around her makeshift island garden for several minutes before calling out a greeting to him. The sound of her voice made him jerk back, and he caught her eyes with his, looking surprised and a little guilty.

"Hi, Rose!" He popped up a hand in a little wave. "How're you? He out hunting?"

"Hurley, you're a sweetie, but Bernard and I-"

His shoulders dropped a little and she stopped, bending her lips in a wry expression. "Don't want to see any of us. I know, I know, I just. Can you let me say my thing and I'll go?"

She leaned her rake against the side of the cabin and loosely crossed her arms. Her eyebrows furrowed together, contemplative but not disapproving. "Go ahead."

Hurley stood a moment with his mouth open, closed it again, then shrugged. An oversized cotton shirt billowed around him as he cleared his throat. "It's over, Rose. Nobody's gonna come by to scare you anymore. Ever. And I just came by to say that if you still want nobody at all to bug you, that's cool. I'll make sure everyone sticks to that. I promise." His voice speeded up. She had the sense he was afraid she was going to cut him off. She didn't. "But, like, if you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar or something, I'm here. I'll be a good neighbor and even if you never see me, I'm gonna take care of you guys."

He shrugged again. "And that's all."

Rose looked down at the ground around her feet. Small weeds and speckled grass sprouted up, little flowers. The air smelled fresh. She had to admit, it was like the world had finally gone serene. She looked up again, fixed his eyes again with her own dark ones, and nodded. "All right, Hurley. I don't have an answer for you right now, but all right." She unfolded her arms, considered a moment, and then stepped towards him, putting a hand out. "Jack's dead, honey. Did you know?"

Hurley's lip trembled and he nodded. He tilted his head slightly, looking at her with wet eyes that threatened to spill over. "How'd you know?"

"We found him. Bernie and I. Vincent led us to him." She took another step and put her hand on his arm. "We buried him right where we found him, in this pretty little stand of bamboo." That was it for Hurley. Rose found herself hugging him, trying to give what comfort she could to the gentle, sobbing giant. Between sobs he thanked her, over and over, for taking care of their friend.

. . .

Benjamin Linus left his suit jacket draped over the bench, his shirt sleeves already buttoned to the elbows and a tiny bit of sweat tickling down the back of his neck. Hugo Boss was not meant for island wear, but he hadn't bothered to change yet.

The sounds of construction reached him, and he narrowed his eyes against the fiery setting sun to see a handful of the remaining islanders patching and cleaning the Dharma homes. The skeletons of new construction stood as well, smaller houses being prepared for more off the grid utility. Hurley had moved fast while he was away. Ben noted one of them had a side room, decided it was probably the outline of the study he had asked for. He didn't want his old house back. There was some kind things to starting fresh.

Behind him, the ground was still marred by holes left by pulled stakes and fences. He refused to turn and see the wide patch of fresh tilled earth. Beneath its surface lay the seeds of anthuriums taken from the Orchid station, waiting to sprout. Further beneath, he preferred not to think of, though he did anyway, always, and lied to himself about it. He also ignored the knot in his throat, clearing it away as Hurley stepped into view from jungle's edge. He forced a smile, then managed to make it genuine. "Hello, Hugo."

"Hey, dude." His voice was subdued. "Rose is doing great. I just got around to visiting her."

"I see. That's very good, Hugo." Ben tilted his head, tactfully skipping the fact that Hurley had been visibly afraid to visit her since before Ben left on his business. "I have good news."

Hurley managed a smile of his own. "My ma?"

"She's fine. And your father. They are much better now that they know you're fine. I'm informed she nearly ate my lawyer, and I don't think he wants to hear from me for a while." The return of the little lip quirk. "Everything is legally arranged. You are now the primary stockholder and CEO of Mittelos. There's been some trouble avoiding the press on the topic, but as I say, it's a small firm. They'll grow more bored after each employee informs them they know nothing. And they don't."

"Great, dude." Hurley moved to sit on the bench as Ben tugged his jacket further to the side. "So, uh, what else is going on in the world? How's it look?"

"Dire, as usual." Ben arched an eyebrow, then sat next to Hurley. The jacket bunched behind him. "What would you enjoy? The beginner's guide to disaster in the Middle East? How much the two Koreas still hate each other? Internal strife in the Americas? The presidential election is next year, that'll be marvelous. The bile on the newscasts could already fill buckets. This Chicago fellow looks good, though. Might be a nice bit of history coming."

"I think I get the idea." Hurley looked down. "You're the smart one. You know how to look at stuff and be all tactical about it. Serious."

"A good word is _pragmatic._ " Ben kept his tone gentle, avoiding condescension.

"See? I don't even know how to spell that, dude."

"You're not stupid, Hugo. An example and indictment of public schooling perhaps, but we're not discussing that." He waited while Hurley processed what he said. "I know what you're thinking. Light and darkness on the island, and yet beyond, the warfare capability of nearly any given country and mankind's ability for cruelty makes this feel pale and thin. Like protecting a precious little porcelain doll while the world is on fire."

Hurley sniffled. "I don't think I'd say it like that, but pretty much, yeah."

"It's still worth it to do so, Hugo. I believe that."

The other man nodded slowly. "Good. Because yeah, that's what we gotta do. But more than that, we gotta show people _why_ it's worth it."

Ben remained quiet, a glimmer of doubt spreading on his face.

"We can bring miracles back, dude. The more hope that's out there-" he waved a hand in the general direction of a near shore. "Maybe the more a little place like this can be. Maybe even brighter. It doesn't have to be the same thing forever."

"Doesn't have to remain status quo."

"...Yeah. We can do more. We can learn about this place and teach with it."

Ben nodded slowly. A thoughtful expression moved in, drew blue eyes into lidded deepness. "I may know someone you'd like to meet. If you're willing to risk a short leave."

"Where'd we be going?"

Thin lips quirked into a light smile. "Africa."


	3. Axis Mundi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Jimmy Xamseb previously guested in Requiem, also featuring Ben)

3.

_Kalahari Sunset - Dressed for the Occasion – Axis Mundi – They're Not Old Friends – Taking Stock – The Ol' Text Message Blues_

_~Early 2008, the Kalahari Central, Namibia_

The word 'desert' summons for most the idea of dry dunes, high winds, and a nearly endless silence broken only by the susurrations of sand against sand. This is true, but it is, as Benjamin Linus explained to Hurley before vanishing onto another airplane, not always all the truth. From the fine and private lodge on the edge of the Kalahari reserve, Hurley could see things he had never seen before. As the sun reached the far horizon, a small herd of jumpy, quick-legged eland fled across his field of view, black profiles cutting across the orange sky. He heard voices calling to each other, gamesmen and San Bushmen talking in scattered English, Afrikaans, and the impenetrable Khoi clicks. He felt out of place, uncomfortable and exposed, and his mind muttered to itself about the phone call that had finally gotten through as he and his advisor arrived. He didn't know the nature of it, not yet, but he knew the tense, distant expression on Ben's face as he'd arranged an immediate flight back to the U.S.

Hurley was alone, the thing he hated most, though he could distract himself with the sights and sounds that greeted him where he leaned against the thick railings of the lodge balcony. The lodge was mostly quiet, the only other pair of staying guests having gone for an overnight trip into the reserve itself. Staff moved around inside the building, their shadows dimming the bright windows and then disappearing again. Loud laughter broke the falling night now and again, the bartender within sharing a drink with the occasional visitor.

Eventually, one of these broke away from the bar and a man's silhouette filled the doorway behind Hurley. He heard the wood floor creak and turned his head to take a look. "Mr. Reyes?"

"Yeah," he answered, his voice hesitant. "You the guy?"

The man stepped into the light of the lamps. He was slender, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair. A wry smile deepened the wrinkles of dark cheeks and gnarled hands were clasped before him, a half-full glass caught between. He wore a carefully ironed linen suit, and a small silver ring winked in the light on one of his knuckles. "I am. Yon missing Mr. Linus didn't specify what I should call you." He took another step forward and put out a hand to shake. Hurley took it, then noticed the man's sandaled feet.

"Hurley's fine, Mr. Xamseb." He tilted his head. "You're a shaman?"

"Jimmy's fine, son, not much point to ceremony but the aggrandization of the self. And I am." His lips quirked as his eyes wrinkled up at Hurley. "You expecting a cloth wrap and a stick?"

Hurley flushed, and the shaman waved his hand at the expression. "You don't offend me. I do wear a simpler kit out there, where the people look for it and know what it means." He jutted his chin out towards the reserve and wiggled his glass, clinking the ice inside. "But this is a nice joint, son, four stars and the bartender knows where his money comes from. Pays to dress for the occasion. Either one." His voice kept to a storyteller's rhythm. "So I expected two and got the one. Not that I mind, but the man is one to keep an appointment above and beyond what a man should commit to."

"Yeah, sorry about that. He got some phone call, I dunno what it's about yet, but I'm sure I'll find out. Probably nothing good." Hurley reached up a hand to scratch at his chin.

"Very little good follows after poor Mr. Linus." Another smile, with no rancor in his voice. "It's his way, although I wonder for you, if you'd say you're following him."

"Actually, he's following me. I guess. Sort of." Hurley cleared his throat through another flush.

"The times, they are a-changin'." Jimmy made an amused sound in the back of his throat. "C'mon and follow me down a ways to sit. We'll talk."

. . .

There was a bench beyond the gates of the lodge, old and iron-wrought and seated with dried wood. It kept company with a disused stretch of unpaved road, the sand and stone of it marred with visible tracks. Some human, some dainty hooves, and others Hurley couldn't identify. He peered at them as a way of not staring or looking uncomfortable or confused. "So, uh, how'd you know Ben?"

"He crossed paths with an old friend of mine some years back, came my way sometime later with some questions. Don't know how the answers worked out for him, don't much need to know. Not my story."

Hurley took his gaze off the road and glanced at the wiry older man. "So what's yours?"

Jimmy set his empty glass down on the stone beside the bench, then looked up at Hurley and grinned. "Which one? Backward ass African boy goes to college and makes good, or the other one, what happen when I get called home? I can tell you both are pretty boring, 'cept to those involved, although you might get more out of the latter."

"Uh."

"Don't think my story is precisely what you're looking for, though it was what you were asking about." Jimmy straightened up again, leaned back against the bench and gave Hurley an examining look. "Always ask what you want answered. A storyteller's gonna play with you otherwise."

Hurley rubbed a hand over his face, paused to scratch some itching stubble. "Ben thinks you know stuff that might help me. Cause I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't really get what I'm protecting. And I don't even know if that makes sense to you."

"The heart of the world, son. _Axis mundi._ " The shaman rustled in a pocket and began to pull out the start of a handmade cigarette.

"Okay?" Hurley squinted.

"It's gonna be a paradox for you. Hold on and let me explain." Jimmy lit the treat and gave it a contemplative puff. Smoke began to swirl as he gestured, as if emphasizing. "Your place isn't exactly unique, but it's special. Most special place in the world. For you. For some others. For someone else, it might be somewhere else." He closed his eyes while he took a drag, opened them and fixed Hurley with a probing stare. "The world's gotta lot of hearts, son. Might be someone like you deep in a forgotten shrine near Fiji. Or not. Might at least be stories about it. Fayyum. The Anangu call theirs Uluru."

Hurley jerked, recognizing the name. "That's where, Australia?" He'd heard of it during a long ago talk with Rose.

"Yessir. Anywhere that man believes the earth is most sacred, where the purity of it can touch the sky. A place of light and hope, where man might go to feel closer to what was, and what could be. Something worth protecting, and keeping bright."

"And there's one near here?"

"Man that came before me believed so. Suppose I do, too." Another drag and Jimmy's eyes unfocused, staring off somewhere distant. "I was a college boy. Got out of here on a scholarship, landed at NYU long before you were born. Spent my summers in Harlem with a couple other kids I lessoned with, kids that didn't make fun of the accent I had or the wide-eyed way I looked at the world. When I was little, I was out there-" He gestured at the dim horizon. "Learning to hunt, learning all the old stories, and trusting the shamans to keep us safe. Was one of them, the oldest one, who pushed me west. Made it right with my family. Had no name he gave, just the shaman, but I remember. Can't have been more'n ten years old the first time he came by and put a hand on my forehead. He say to me, I'm gonna have to learn two worlds. Walk 'em both. Cause the world we had was changing, and we were gonna need a protector that could speak the language."

Jimmy finished his cigarette and tossed it down into the empty glass. "Wasn't out of college a week before the call comes. Come home. You're needed. To this day, I don't know how in hell my father was convinced to pick up that phone. Wasn't our way. And I come home and the shaman's waiting for me and we go on a long walk. Find this pretty little oasis and take a drink together. He tells me a story about the one who came before him, the last time the world started changing. The one who was a gardener, the one who taught him to be a gardener, and the day he left the temples of Akkad. And he told me what he would, in a voice that said it didn't matter if I believed him or not, because I was like him now."

Jimmy finished with a shrug. "He died, few days later. I wasn't there, had already gone for my first long walk into the Kalahari to see what I needed, but I knew." He fixed Hurley with a look. "It isn't the knowing in your mind that's important, son. It's the knowing in your heart. The rest you'll figure out. Ain't any wrong answers on that score."

Hurley sat a while, absorbing what he'd heard. "Have you figured it out?"

"Made some mistakes here and there; lost some land to diamond boys and poachers, but they ain't never found what's important. They don't need to. So long as the light is out there, so long as the heart of the world beats, we're doing pretty good."

Another pause. Hurley thought of the darkness that had filled the cave. "What if... your light goes out and doesn't come back? What if any of them do, or mine?"

"Then darkness gets stronger and bad things start to happen. It's a balance. We keep the balance." Jimmy looked amused. "Got any more questions for me?"

"Give me a few to think."

Jimmy pulled out the makings of another cigarette. "We got all the time in the world, son."

. . .

Ben sat quietly in the dim booth of a Los Angeles coffee shop, his eyes flicking from face to face as people passed by. A mug of some thick brew sat mostly disregarded by his hand, a slim little phone next to that, and an expression of bland distaste on his face. It was not meant for his coffee, which he would have admitted tasted very fine, but rather his impending companion. He kept watch for long moments, then finally allowed his gaze to dip as he tasted his drink.

A shadow fell across him the moment he finished swallowing. _Naturally,_ he thought. A voice broke any further mental sardonics. "Benjamin. I was afraid it'd be you. Couldn't your lot have sent some middle manager instead?"

He sat his mug down with slow deliberation, then flicked his blue gaze up to take in the disapproving stare of Eloise Hawking. She was regal in a blue coat and the ever-present glint of a gold ouroboros. "It sounded important." He gestured across from him and she took the seat with prim caution. "Care for something?"

"No."

Ben allowed himself a long stare, which she returned with a dour narrowing of her eyes. "I always felt there should be three of you, Eloise." She didn't respond to the bait, but he pressed on anyways. "Like those horrible _Graeae_ with their lone eye and their riddles."

"And Loki himself would approve of you. I'm not here to duel with you, Benjamin, although that's always a pleasant side treat to our rare visits." She drew out the words with the full effect of her clipped accent. "You may as well be aware that there's trouble, as I signaled. It's going to be quite a trial."

Ben picked up his mug again and cupped it in both hands. His expression was not concerned. "Go on."

"The island and its little front have, despite what you believed, benefited from Charles' continued existence. While he lived, he controlled what attention was paid to the remnants of Dharma. Strangled their research, distracted prying eyes. You and I know he did so by corporate acquisitions. He absorbed Hanso itself, and partnered with Paik." She arched an eyebrow. "You and I both also know it would be not for any love of you or what was being cared for."

"He didn't want competition in his interests." A sip. Now he looked contemplative.

"Correct. Now they stand alone again, and Hanso is still very interested in what happened to its grand experiment. They want to recoup their losses. And they're looking to do it by assaulting Widmore's corpse." She crossed her arms. "Someone in Hanso's hierarchy is consolidating stock for a full takeover. They served papers on poor Penelope a little while ago." Pause for emphasis. "Last week, they got to me."

Ben shook his head. "Doubtful that either of you can be forced out of what's yours."

"No, Benjamin, but they are making it difficult. Young Mrs. Hume is already quite stressed. They're pushing her. And when she has been pushed enough, she will make a deal and sell. It won't be difficult; I don't think she wants much of her father's corporate legacy and they will offer a fair sale, I'm sure. Eventually, they'll do the same to me." She tilted her head to regard Ben. "And I am old, Benjamin, and I am weary of our old wars, and I want my part done with this. When certain matters are complete, I will sell. Let this be your battle entirely. When they can, they'll turn their eyes to Mittelos and its legacy built on Dharma ideas."

He closed his eyes, opened them again. He allowed a brief internal tremor of concern, then pushed it away again for other calculation. Then paused that, for another thought. "I think it would be good of me to say _thank you_ for the warning."

Eloise narrowed her eyes again, allowing a touch of puzzlement on her face. "That's different."

"Mm. It's the second time you've permitted yourself to help us. Me." He glanced down at his coffee, took a drink. "Why?"

She took a long pause. "This time? It's a new era for the island. I don't know who's in charge now, but they may as well not have more enemies than they need."

"The other?" His phone vibrated against the table and he put his hand on top of it to still it.

Eloise pursed her lips. "I allowed myself some brief sympathy. I knew the hour and the cause of my son's death and understood my role in it. And the pain. I knew of your daughter. And understood the pain. Nothing more. The slate between us is clean, Benjamin, and I expect that this will be the last time we talk."

Ben tilted his head politely. "Very well. Good luck, Eloise."

"You'll need it more than I, Benjamin. Good bye."

. . .

After Eloise left him alone, Ben lifted his hand from the slim little cellphone and picked it up to examine. An icon flashed, indicating a text message. The sending number indicated it had come from his lawyer's private phone. _No rest for the wicked,_ he thought while retrieving the message. The text itself contained a code word indicating an emergency and a single name.

_Straume._

Ben swore under his breath and began punching redial.


	4. Diamonds Aren't Forever

4.

_Diamonds Aren't Actually Forever – Nikki & Paolo Zombie Season – Devilish Deals With Your Constant Host, Benjamin Linus – Ex-LAX – A Ladylike Act of Arson_

The Los Angeles County jail lived up to the standards of jails everywhere. Benjamin Linus followed his lawyer down narrow corridors of bland tan and off-white, with the occasional plaster crack to liven up the scenery. It was not meant to look like a place one jumped at the chance to visit, and it took the role very seriously. It was designed to feel oppressive, to ensure an inmate's psychological pressure was constant, to cause fright and docility. It bounced off Ben, fully aware of the use of such places, and he glanced blandly into the occasional reinforced office window. Dan Norton's voice droned into his ear, businesslike.

"They picked him up at a pawn in West Hollywood, trying to sell off just a couple of them. The broker didn't like how he reacted. Yelled something about how he had eight million dollars worth of goods to move, not a bright thing to say. The broker called it in. Police grabbed him up, found the bag, and found it matched a theft report."

Ben made a soft, amused sound. Norton looked back at him, eyebrow raised. "What was he offered?"

"Couple hundred or something. Straume didn't take it well." Norton looked away as Ben gave a short laugh. They caught up to the guard just beyond the interrogation room door. "All right, I'll be right outside with the guard when he wants to deal."

. . .

Miles Straume sat behind a steel industrial desk, not exactly an example of the fine and comfortable work of IKEA, and absently clinked the handcuff that linked him to a hole drilled in the desk for that purpose. A copy of his file sat on the desk, the blank manila folder bringing the only hint of color to the room. He didn't bother to reach for it. One of the detectives had already drilled a couple of the salient points into his head.

_I screwed up. I really screwed up. So much for my retirement fund, although I guess I just found some permanent accommodations._ The door creaked, the movement bringing a tiny movement of air in to disrupt the older smells of urine and paper. Miles glanced up only a little to notice black pants, then dropped his eyes again. The assumption that it was the return of the cranky detective was shattered when the man's voice drawled at him.

"In reflection, Miles, I suppose you rather wish you'd taken that banana-leaf check."

Miles' head jerked up, his eyes wild. They caught the bright, staring blue ones and his brain screamed _FUCK_! at him. The chair began to topple, twisting his wrist as his first instinct to back away neglected to account for the cuffs. "Guard?" he shouted, sprawled on the ground. " _GUARD_?"

"He's right outside with my lawyer, Miles." Ben smiled at him, tone mild. "You might as well settle down."

"Shit."

"Three million dollars versus the few thousand you were gonna get for the diamonds, if you were careful. If only we could travel in time." His voice kept to a sardonic drawl.

Miles narrowed his eyes up at him. "Look, man, those things were worth eight large."

"To their owner. You really should have researched the secondary market a little. Diamonds are a terrible investment." Ben tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Oh, and the owner is dead. Murdered. They're running on the assumption you're connected somehow to the criminals. The detective intended to let you know that in a little while."

Miles made a gurgling noise.

"I'm informed the murderers were... oh, how did you put it? A pair of 'jabronies' – did I say that right? - named Nikki and Paolo." Ben arched an eyebrow and curved a quirked smile. "I suppose they didn't do their research, either. A diamond heist and they fled the country. Apparently they were a little fond of thinking the world worked in the same way as the woman's awful acting career portrayed it. Oops."

Miles found his voice again. It still sounded hoarse to his ears. "You don't have to sound like you're enjoying this so much."

"You're right. I'm being quite rude." Ben crossed the room towards Miles, who tensed involuntarily. Ben gave him a glance, then righted the toppled metal chair. He reached out a hand towards Miles' free one. "You're hurting your wrist further. Get up."

He stayed still, despite his throbbing arm. He flexed it, trying to get it to ease off without taking the help.

"Don't be a child. I am not here to hurt you. If my word is not enough, and I suspect for you it isn't, I remind you that we are in the depths of a public jail, with two people right outside the door."

"Your word is definitely not enough."

Ben stared at him. "It's Hugo's word as well."

That made Miles blink. He fumbled for a moment, taking the smaller, dry-palmed hand and allowing himself to be pulled up. The movement made his wrist hurt even more for a second, then eased off. He wriggled his fingers, grateful for that much. "Okay. I'll listen."

"Good." Ben backed off, leaned against the near wall. "I am offering you the services of my legal team. They're not gonna be able to just wipe the whole thing away for you, because what you did is certainly stupid, tangled, criminal, and I do have some respect for the law."

"Yeah, you're really a classy, completely legit guy." Miles clamped his mouth shut, mentally yelling at himself for poking at a murderer.

Ben arched an eyebrow again, apparently unoffended. "Regardless of your opinion of my legal history, we're discussing yours. I expect that your connection to the diamonds can be unraveled, the rest pushed into misadventure, and you'll wind up with some rather stringent terms of probation. It will be far preferable to your fate as it stands, however. I can promise this much."

"Why?"

"Because Hugo would want it. What you did was stupid, as I've said." Ben tilted his head, looking contemplative. "Repeatedly. Mm." He sighed. "But I don't believe you intended harm to anyone."

Miles rubbed at the reddened ring on his wrist, then flicked his gaze back up. "What I meant to do was get enough money to keep the hell away from everything we got into. Go live somewhere else and not see anybody I recognize ever again. So what happens? You show up. Does this offer of help get followed up with some crap about how the island isn't done with me?"

"No."

Miles watched Ben for a few moments, but the man didn't seem inclined to elaborate. He pressed. "No? The hell does that mean?"

"It means no. The island is done with you. But your friend would want to keep you safe." Ben shrugged. "You'll get your safety, your distance, and when the terms of your probation are worked out, your isolation, if that's what you like. I'll even offer, once more, the three million you so hotly desired with no strings attached save one. And it is a very small, simple one."

Miles narrowed his eyes, still suspicious. "What's that?"

"You will not speak of the island, and you will not discuss any attachment you have to Mittelos Bioscience. I'm aware Richard used some of his corporate privileges to help ease those of you who left the island back into the world without as much fanfare as the discovery of the Oceanic survivors. If you are approached to discuss those topics, you will disengage and you will inform us using a private number that my lawyer will provide for you. I will not elaborate on the reasons why, but I will say that it is intended to continue giving you what you want – separation from the island and everything connected to it."

Before Miles could open his mouth to ask for clarification anyway, Ben shook his head at him. He started somewhere else. "That's it. Those're the terms? I don't say jack squat to anyone and you give me a Get Out of Jail Free card, plus all the cash on the Free Parking Square."

"Yes, Miles. Your analogy, while tormented, is correct." Ben put up a hand to rub his forehead.

_Clink-clink-clink_ went the handcuffs as he tapped them in thought. Miles bit his lip, then set his arm down. "I'd be nuts to turn it down." He looked at the door. "I still just think this is weird and not really something to trust."

"It's a sane response, considering. The offer is legitimate."

"...Alright."

Ben went to the door, knocked lightly on it, and slipped out when it opened without a further word. Miles looked up at the lawyer, whose tired expression said he was used to these things. "Hi."

"Mr. Straume." Norton picked up the manila folder. "Let's get to work."

. . .

Despite functional immortality and surviving several weird encounters with airplanes (or perhaps because), Hurley decided he firmly loathed airplanes. He looked out the window, down at the shrinking sight of LAX on his way to Portland, and felt his guts give a horrified gurgle. The seat next to him was unoccupied, ensuring that no one heard his distress. He looked away from the window and up the aisle, noting that the first class bathroom was empty.

_This is going to be one of the top ten weirdest things I've ever thought to myself, but I wish Ben was here. He'd say something sarcastic and I'd stop worrying and everything would be fine. Considering that one of the last times I had to be on a plane, I nearly crapped a kitten because he was coming on board._

_Weirdest. Year. Ever._

The thought occurred to him that he was going to have a lot of weird years still to come and he closed his eyes. His stomach gurgled again. He'd gone through a handful of similar thoughts when taking the flight out of Namibia. Jimmy had seen him off after his visit of several days, still dressed in a light summer suit, although Hurley had gotten used to seeing him in a shaman's clothes, too. Still no direct word from Ben, although getting back into cell range let him retrieve a couple of typically curt text messages.

_Business matter unfolding. Will inform._

_Incident with Miles. Sorted._

And as he raced for his connecting flight towards home, he caught one that was a touch more human: _In Prtld, nice liquor store two blocks fm. MB. Michael Collins whiskey. Best one. Two bottles. Please._

Hurley shook his head, rifling through his pockets and pulling up the phone to reread the last. _Guess even he hits a brain limit occasionally._

_. . ._

It was, Eloise decided, quite strange to see the Lamp Post's pendulum caught in stillness. For over twenty years of her observation, it had swung in its long, sweeping path. Tracking the island. Tracking fate. She kept her lips pursed and her thoughts under control as her gaze swept the chamber for any last minute details that needed attending. Cables were disconnected and shredded into junk. The walls were bare; old photos of the island and lat/long papers either spirited away or burned in their own separate pile. The barrier cartons in the vaulted hallway were in place. Her office above in the church proper stood empty, the removed cabinets leaving their scars behind on the walls.

Eloise unscrewed the lid of the finely detailed little flask and raised it to her lips, permitting herself a small taste of the MacCutcheon reserve scotch before resealing it and putting it away in her coat. She nodded once to herself, firmly, and then pulled out the matchbox from the same pocket that held her flask. A few quick gestures and the pile of paper beneath the stilled pendulum was ablaze.

She left quickly, silently, without a single look back as the Lamp Post burned into unsalvageable ruins. The smell of smoke and burning rubber lifted into the church itself, though the main building would be unscathed by her final duty to the island. The fire would be contained behind the thick door that warned of high voltage, itself sealed to help cut the flow of oxygen to the place below.

When Eloise Hawking stepped out into the Los Angeles night, only then did she allow herself a single glance at the regal church and its connection to her lost island home. She lifted her chin up, a silent salute to her past. _I've sold my stake in you to men who would not caretake for you as we did. But I will not sell my soul and yours. They will not use you through me. Farewell. And fate be kind._

She slipped into the seat of a deep blue Lexus and drove away.


	5. The Hanso Foundation

5.

_The Hanso Foundation – Stock Pile – Hostile Takeover – Ben Drinks – Leadership Pays Off With Headaches_

_Copenhagen, Denmark_

The Hanso Foundation evolved as its home city did. Starting in the mid twentieth century as the product of a sea-change in the heart of its founder, it first set down its roots in a stylish rococo building in the Frederiksstaden. As the goals of the organization changed in the wake of internal turmoil, so too did its facade. Alvar Hanso, reclaiming his role as CEO, abruptly moved them into the twenty-first century, into a fine new building in the Ørestad district; an aesthetic block of steel and fine glass overlooking the canal. He did not explain why, beyond claiming that the Foundation required a 'fresh start.' No details could be ferreted out, nor was there an explanation for the reorganization of the board of directors and other executive staff. It simply was. The past was over. What had happened, happened.

Despite Hanso's somewhat more active role at the start of the new millenia, the edicts he set down and the courses he changed did not settle well with everyone. Factions were made. Deals were struck. Men watched for tactical chances to cover themselves. Who knew when Hanso would make another grand change and upset their world? Businessmen, even those who work for humanitarian purposes, do not often enjoy abrupt change, though they will adapt for their own ends. Unless it was controlled.

Alvar Hanso was not controlled. He stood alone, and remained a private, often secretive man.

Sam Hicks was among those who adapted. Hired in during one of the periods of change in 2006, he was used to unsettling shifts in his environment. As an executive for the Foundation, he watched the internal memos. He observed the changes in command. He kept careful eye on their corporate allies. He managed his private finances very well. And most of all, he watched Alvar Hanso. He lived content, certain in the knowledge that Hanso did not watch him.

What had happened, happened. Hicks liked to learn from history. History had told him there were some interesting pieces of Foundation business that had gone untouched. Profitable business. He spent a certain amount of private time carefully unearthing it.

As he sat behind a finely made desk of oak and bronze – a treat he'd permitted himself the year before – his gaze flicked down to the fragile photocopies that lay atop it in a neat pile. The Daoist octagon marked each page, the logo of Dharma. The papers themselves described matters in cold financial language; long-term purchase orders for airlift delivery to remote locations, a list of receipt claims for some joint Tunisian research project with Widmore Corporation. Exotic veterinarian consultations for bears prior to some unexplained transport. _Ursus maritimus_ , to be specific to the receipt listing. Odd stuff. But mundane enough on paper.

Polar bears, though. Hicks often thought about that. What the hell had Hanso been doing with polar bears?

He jerked his head up at the sharp rapping on his office door. On instinct, his hands pulled a bland manila folder atop the photocopies. A sleek blond head peeked in and smiled at him. "Bill wants to meet you for lunch down at that one park you boys like."

Sam gave his secretary a quick, meaningless grin. "That's fine, Janice. One?"

"What he suggested. I'll tell him."

"Thank you, darling."

She dropped a wink at him and disappeared. Sam took another look at his papers, then put them away in the lockable lower drawer along with the information about his other little business hobby. It was a little after noon. Plenty of time to do a little networking before going out. Maybe even call his lawyer in Los Angeles.

. . .

When Hicks arrived at the Kastellet, lunch in tow in a high-end freezer tote, he spotted his lunch companion right away. Bill Flood lounged against the wall of the King's Gate, flapping him a lazy wave with his free hand. The other held a brown bag. That was Bill; simplicity in all he did. It kept him out of the more complex schemes of the company, but at the same time, he saw everything and was impossible to lie to. Sam had admired him for it since being hired in around the same time, but he also liked to tell the other man as little as possible about his business. He didn't think Bill would approve.

He followed his coworker down to the paths and shady groves near the water, sitting comfortably together as they munched, not speaking much at first. Bill wiped his fingers off with a napkin, then glanced over to Hicks with a deceptively casual expression. "Sam, what are you up to with Widmore?"

Hicks paused in mid-chew, pesto mayonnaise threatening to drop. He put the sandwich down and gave the other man a bland look. "I don't know what-"

"Cut the shit. You're buying up their stock like kids looking for a golden ticket to Wonkaville. Couple of the big boys have been talking about it. You don't think nobody noticed their stock dropping into crap? Lot of people looked at Widmore's death as an opportunity. Lot of people looking for the one that moved fast on it." Bill put down the napkin and tore open a bag of potato chips, tone still mild. "You had some stock sheets on your desk last week. I saw them."

Hicks stayed still. _For two seconds before I put them away. Jesus Christ, Bill._ "How much can I do? I buy a little stock, when Hanso moves to do the squeeze-out and pick them up, I make a little extra coughing up to my superiors. No harm in that. I'm loyal, I'll be happy to do it."

Bill crunched on a chip. "So who pushed on the daughter? Cause corporate didn't do it. Kid was good for some major stock right there. Not enough for the full ninety percent, but I bet you're working on it."

"Bill-"

"I pay attention. Just because I don't move complex doesn't mean I can't think that way. I was hired in as a watchdog. I've been watching you. The fuck are you up to?"

A muscle in Sam Hicks' jaw began to twitch. "I'm feeding some curiosity."

"By fucking buying up a _corporation?_ The hell with your curiosity, take your stock fund, go buy a winery or three, and watch your fingernails grow in early retirement."

Hicks swore under his breath. Bill shot him a look for it anyway. "What happened with the Dharma project in the eighties? Everything they were working on? The DeGroots haven't talked. Alvar's marked it as a dead topic. But I've got paperwork that says we've got physicists that died on that project. One of them just vanished. Nobody's interested in the topic."

"You're telling me about rain in the Andes when I asked about the baseball score." Bill crunched up the chip wrapper and shoved it into the brown bag.

"I'm not trying to buy out the company. I'm buying access. Enough stock and I can push my way in to get a look at their work." Sam shoved a hand through his hair. "You ever look at one of their minor market competitors? Mittelos?"

"I'm aware of them. Little firm in Oregon; came on big in the nineties with some new fertility and cancer research. Some new bandage ideas. Very private, not interested in pushing into the big leagues."

"It's all stuff Dharma was working on. I've got the progress reports."

That made Bill put down the bag and give him a long look. "Some guy invented the telephone same time as Bell."

"Bill."

"Some weeny little corp that didn't even exist twenty years ago went back in time to the eighties and, what? Made Dharma vanish and stole their ideas?"

Hearing his theory aloud made it sound more foolish than Sam was prepared for. He fell into a long silence.

"What's that got to do with Widmore, anyway?"

Sam closed his eyes, then opened them again. "They were digging into Mittelos. I haven't found much because I can't get to much from here. The 'weeny little corp' is like a fortress. I know Widmore tried to send in some information analyst they hired. Got almost nothing. What they did get, I don't know about. But they were trying hard. I can't find the analyst, either."

"Okay. This is starting to make some sense. But why do you care?"

Sam winced. "That's a few billion dollars worth of profit that Mittelos took from _somebody._ "

"So you blow a few million of your own to..."

He stayed quiet.

Bill nodded. "To blackmail them and push Hanso into taking you seriously. That was really stupid, man. And expensive."

Hicks was still quiet.

"Thanks, though. You really saved some people some legwork." Bill pulled the small gun from the lunchbag and pressed it into Sam's chest, firing once. The pop, while muffled, still echoed across the water. Ducks wailed hoarsely in the distance, and Bill got up to nudge the corpse into the river, waiting for it to float out of sight.

. . .

"So if I'm getting you right, and I'm probably not, some business dude is getting nosy about stuff. But it's affecting Widmore's company, and I'm not getting what the issue is."

Ben hung his head for a moment, then refilled a small shotglass with another round of whiskey. He was moving slow on it, third shot in an hour in a half, and had succeeded in giving himself only a light buzzing sensation and an increased ability for patience. "Someone is collecting stock in Widmore's corporation. It's easy to do right now, because it's cheap on the market because he's dead. Bad news tends to bring prices down. So giving a fair deal to someone to buy them out is easier."

"Okay."

"So they hit two people in Charles' family, got a lot of stock. I don't know what the goal is. I don't have enough information. But Widmore kept a lot of attention off of us and at the same time kept a very close eye on us. Mittelos. A possible risk of a new set of eyes getting a look at Widmore's business is the discovery of that fact."

Hurley scratched the side of his nose with a finger, picturing it out. He leaned back in the chair of his kitchen. One of the new little homes they'd made. "Okay. It's like someone on Risk getting a look at one of the other guy's setup and plans. That'd be bad. Especially if the first guy is Australia."

Ben allowed himself a long, slow blink and took his fourth shot. "Something like that," he managed. "But business being what it is, there's no way to tell if that's all of it. Or any of it. Widmore is in a volatile state." He paused, considering whether to pick a different word. "It's quite fluid. Things could change fast. And that means all the companies they work with, Paik, GWC, Hanso, are also going to be fluid to react. I can't give you any advice you're gonna like because we don't know what's actually going on."

"So what's the advice I'm not going to like?"

"We go to ground for a while. A year, maybe two. Defensive position, it's the safest choice, tactically. Wait and see what they do, who the real threat is, and then move from there. Afterward, gather more information and prepare either more defense or other options."

Hurley tilted his head and looked at Ben. "You're right, I don't really dig that."

"I promise, I'm not suggesting it because I'm trying to prevent you building a waterslide on the island." Ben stared into the empty shotglass. "I signed up to advise, you have my word I'm on your side in this. If you wanted a waterslide, I would buy more whiskey and live with it."

"And complain a lot. With all that sarcasm stuff you do."

"But I'd live with it. Because if nothing else, you're not telling me this via short little _notes._ " It came out more bitter than he'd expected and he shot a hand out to cap the bottle. Time to cut himself off.

Hurley didn't say anything to that. If Ben had looked up, he'd have spotted an uncomfortable look of sympathy. "Okay. I believe you." He squinted out the window over the sink. "We got a lotta time, don't we?"

"All the time in the world, if you want it."

"'Kay. A year or so. And afterward, we do stuff like you suggest, but I got some ideas about how it's done that I'd like at least considered. Who we get help from. Stuff like that."

"Right."

"Richard gonna be okay out there?" Ben didn't respond to the question. He kept his eyes on the bottle he'd brought along. "Ben?"

The response came slowly. "I'm advising leaving him out there, uncontacted, as _bait._ They very likely won't hurt him, whoever 'they' currently are. But the position he has may incidentally gain us information for later use."

"I really don't like that."

"I know."

"This leading thing sucks sometimes."

Ben looked up to see Hurley rubbing his forehead. "I know."


	6. Interlude: New Mexico Sunset

6.

_Interlude: New Mexico Sunset – Print Article_

James Ford looked down at his shuffling feet, feeling awkward and out of place on the porch, orange setting sun still fairly high in the sky over his shoulder. He felt its heat on his back and blamed it for the gnaw in his stomach, though he knew better. He nodded once to himself, then reached up to rap knuckles on the wooden door. He stopped himself just before he connected, closed his eyes, and sighed to himself in frustration.

_All the things I seen and done so far, and this is what's got me most chickenshit yet. Ain't I a sight, standing out here like an asshole for all the neighbors to watch. What's worst that can happen?_

He winched an eye open to examine his surroundings. _Could call the cops on me. Trespass or something. Despite my cleaned up record, can't say I'd still enjoy the experience. Maybe I should just go._

_Or not. C'mon, one more deep breath and I'll-_

The door pulled open, and James looked up onto Cassidy's frustrated, confused face for the first time since an Alabama jail. Blonde hair floated gently on either side of her face in the soft breeze. "Uh. Hi."

"What the hell you doing here, James?"

He caught himself with his mouth open, frozen in shock at what he'd imagined coming to pass and realizing all the little scripts he'd come up for himself weren't going to work. He closed his mouth, winced, then started over in the most honest way he could think of. "I want to meet her."

Cassidy tilted her head, face growing stony. "You think you got a right?"

He sighed a little. "No, but I'd like to try anyway. I got no rights in this, none at all. I don't even need to be introduced as her daddy. Won't ask for it. I just want to take a look at her, see for myself she's doing strong, and then I go. That's all, just two minutes of your life and out."

"Somehow I don't think that's what you want."

Another wince. "Naw, but it's what I'll take if I'm let."

She nodded at him, lips still pursed, then looked away, as if to consider. Long minutes passed and he began to expect the worst. Worry panged at him when she spoke. "Not right now, James."

"Cas-"

She took a hand off the door to raise it at him, palm out. "It's getting late, and she's got shows she'd like to watch. She's been good today, and I promised her. It'd confuse and upset her if I pulled her out to meet some stranger now. You meet me tomorrow noon, at the little park down the street. I'll give you your couple minutes then. No promises on anything else."

James managed a nod. He had no upper hand in the situation, nothing but honesty, which had never been that great a tactic for him, and it had worked out. It was something. "Alright, Cas." He dropped a little bow. "Thanks."

She said nothing to that as he got off her porch.

. . .

Clementine, in his opinion, was beautiful. She was hitting that gradeschooler growth, knobby knees, teeth gone awry as they make way for their replacements, a little bit of energetic awkwardness, and long blond hair tied up to match tomboy gear. _She's gonna be a looker when she grows up,_ James thought with some distant pride. _I may not have given up much to her this far, but at least I passed on some pretty good genes._

Cassidy introduced him to the little girl as a friend of mama's, and she'd accepted it with cheerful good humor. She'd shaken James' hand with the force of a kid trying to impress and nearly stepped back at the brilliant, tickled smile he'd shot back at her. When Cassidy told her to go play on the swings, she'd dropped James an awkward little curtsey and fled, giggling.

"I ain't in a place to judge, I know, but you're raising a good kid." Despite himself, James gave his ex-lover a grin.

"I like how you keep being self-deprecating before you say anything. Keep it up." She stood by him with her arms crossed, keeping a mother's watchful gaze on the girl. "So you know you don't have any rights in this. What did you want?"

James shrugged a little, taking his time in piecing together the answer in the right words. Honesty had worked out for him the night before. Might as well keep with it, under the circumstances. "I'd like to be in her life, just a little."

"Mmm." The voice was noncommittal.

"I don't want to play games with you, Cas. I don't ask to play the mommy and daddy game and pretend we still like each other for the sake of her. Kids know, kids pick up on how people hurt each other, and I don't want that. I can be the family friend, a close uncle-type or something. If you don't want to tell her till she's older, or ever, whatever. But support. I can be that. I'd like that."

Still nothing.

"Something better'n my daddy did, at least. He couldn't be there. Took a way out even more chickenshit than anything I did, Cas, and that's truth. Hard believing, but truth."

Her head turned towards him, very slightly. "What'd he do?"

After a long pause, he told her. When he was done, she dipped her head down, half-staring at the ground, half still watching her daughter. "That true, James?"

The telling had hurt. "It's all true."

"Explains a bit."

He nodded.

"What about Kate?"

Something panged in his heart. "What about her?"

"You gonna look her up?"

It was his turn to look down. Then he shook his head. "Notime soon. I made my goodbyes with her when we got back. I think everyone needs some time to think. I realized a lot about losing things, Cassidy, where I was. And I was in love with her." He closed his eyes, realizing what he said applied to two women. Both memories hurt. He didn't want to share Juliet, though. Not yet. He continued. "Probably still am, won't lie on that. But Clementine over there was first, whether I admitted it or not, back there in that jail. I want to get some of this in my life sorted out. For other people's sake. Before I lose 'em, too."

She nodded again, very slightly. "You were always good at bullshit, James. Damn good. I can't know you're telling the truth, and you know damn right you can't convince me."

"Yes'm."

"So the best I can do is either close you out entirely, or take a risk and a chance. Small steps. If you don't frig it up, then you got connection." She lifted her head up, nodding, face tense. "If you do, James, I will fuck you up. You do whatever you want in this world to anyone, but you hurt her, I will fuck you until you want death."

He swallowed, understanding that she felt she was the one taking all the risks in this. He felt he had more than a few himself, but mentioning that wasn't going to help his case. "You got it. I hurt my daughter, I'll give you the rusty knife myself. Start on the testicles. Hurts more."

That drew a small, huffed laugh. "Alright. This is your final chance for starting over."

"Yes'm. That it certainly is." He managed a grin, weak at first and then strengthening as he realized the worst was over. He'd gotten the best he could ask for. "Last chance pays for all."

"Alright. Let's get that child out for some ice cream, what do you say?"

"I say that sounds fine, ma'am."

She turned her head fully towards him and give a still wary but accepting smile. He returned it, feeling better than he'd had since leaving the island. James Ford was going to do the best he could with what he had.

A couple payouts from Richard's corporate contacts were only going to help.

. . .

From the Copenhagen Post, February 16th, 2009:

**Police: 2008 Kastellet victim identified; still no motive**

Police Chief Jens Højbjerg came forward today with the first new information since December regarding the waterlogged corpse of a middle-aged male found floating next to Kastellet Public Park. The victim, now identified as 42 year old Samuel M. Hicks, was discovered by a local woman visiting with her two children. Police have previously revealed that Mr. Hicks had been shot at close range by an unknown assailant.

Mr. Hicks was identified by a family member visiting from the United States, working with police on an unrelated missing persons report. The victim was a high-ranking executive with the Hanso Foundation. Police are working with the organization now to trace the victim's final hours. One witness statement has so far been released, identified as given out by the victim's secretary, on record as the last person to have seen Mr. Hicks. According to her statement to police, Mr. Hicks visited the Kastellet alone to enjoy a small lunch. There are no details of any further contact the victim may have had.

Mr. Alvar Hanso has declined to make a public comment, however a statement was released by the Board of Directors stating their distress and sorrow. The family has been contacted regarding the Foundation's condolences. Those wishing to show their support for Mr. Hicks' family is asked to support one of the Foundation charities Mr. Hicks was involved with.

The police continue to ask for any persons with further information to contact them at their tip line.

_-leave comment: you must be logged in to leave comments-_

. . .

**Bloomberg**

**Businessweek Wednesday June 8th, 2009**

**Paik Set to Finalize Offer for Widmore Corporation Takeover; New Division in Place to Supervise**

South Korean-based Paik Heavy Industries has gone public with its successful acquisition of majority shares in the Widmore Corporation, preceding the final buyout of the corporation itself. According to their statement, this is the culmination of a year's worth of work in the wake of the death of the Widmore chief. Intended to stabilize and further integrate with their long-term financial ally, Paik has offered several assurances to the staff and executives of Widmore that their positions are safe despite the stock consolidation. No short-term lay-offs have been announced.

Paik Industries saw their stock grow by 6% on the Nikkei after the announcement, closing at a record high.

Concurrent to this announcement, Paik also revealed its new European division would be making its headquarters in London. Paik Bioscience has a long-term goal of new innovation in medical markets, and will for the time being be the predominant supervisor and ally of foundering Widmore. This announcement was released by the new division's appointed CEO, William Flood.

_O – email this article O – print this article_


	7. Wine Country

7.

_Wine Country – Uninvited Guests – Paper Tiger – Finishing Old Business – The Hikikomori - Job Offer_

_August, 2009 ~ La Rioja, Spain_

The vineyards of the town of Haro spread wide along its hills; the fragrant, rich scent of grapes filling the thick Mediterranean air. Once a year the festivals come and its inhabitants mark themselves purple and joyous, the last children of distant Dionysus.

It was an old place. Not far from Calahorra, itself a place of grand history that had witnessed ages of iron and stone. Not as well remembered, but it kept to itself and knew its private joys. This was a thing Richard Alpert understood and respected, and a large part of the reason why he'd chosen it for his retirement. It went often forgotten by tourists; left alone to live in peace, though there was much for the land to offer.

He lived peacefully in the two years since he'd escaped the island; not richly but comfortable and informed in a small cottage at the outskirts. He kept to a low profile, the old women in the town calling out cheerful greetings to the quiet Ricardo; he who could speak their tongue with the old, old accent. They marveled at that but didn't gossip. It wasn't their way when it came to caring for their own. He became their quiet son, and when the Englishmen and Americans with their broad, plain words came to try and talk to Alpert, they found no help in the town. They left, frustrated, and the old advisor watched them leave and bought a round each for the various bars. He knew who they were. He suspected what they wanted. He'd kept an eye on the business papers and one luxury he had selected for himself was a high end laptop stocked with a religiously updated office suite. Names, dates, who in Mittelos had been approached, financial fluctuations. He followed it all with distant, detached curiosity and more than a little irritation.

. . .

Richard's watchfulness didn't spare him the shock of returning home one day, gloaming eve setting in, and finding a familiar man sitting on his porch, hands clasped together in perfect patience. A thin briefcase sat between the feet. Richard felt shock, and yet not surprise. He lingered on the little cobbled path, returning an even, unreadable gaze for several long moments before tilting his head and speaking with slow caution. "Hello, Ben."

Benjamin Linus nodded back, eyes never leaving his. "Richard. It's good to see you again."

"Is it?" Richard waited for a response that didn't come. He moved up the cobbles to take the basket-woven chair next to his old compatriot. Still wary, he looked the smaller man over, noting the light suit and neatly trimmed hair. "You're looking good. Youthful, even. Island life still agrees with you, I see. Maybe more than ever."

Nothing. He tried again, looking for information on the world he left. "I'm really rather surprised you were kept on, Ben. You'd think Jack would have been a little more cautious, considering the history."

"Jack's dead." The words were flat, without inflection. A flutter of startlement ran through Richard, apparently showing on his face as Ben flickered a glance up to him. "It wasn't me." Deadpan. Richard licked his lips as Ben shrugged. "You didn't know."

"Kate was upset when they got on the plane. Said he was injured. Wouldn't say anything else. He... passed it to you?" Richard licked his lips again.

"He had better sense than that. Considering the history." Ben tilted his head. "Hugo. Which brings us to now, if we sum up all this little nonsense regarding our _business,_ as I'm certain we are both quite well informed. They did try to approach you."

Richard took a moment before answering, surprised at the leadership choice. "Couple months ago, yes. Got nothing."

"I'd assumed."

"Thanks for the warning, by the way." A note of sardonic anger entered his voice.

Ben didn't twitch at the jab. "Were your visitors from Paik or Hanso?"

"Paik." Richard shook his head. "I don't understand the movement there. I'm watching it, but I don't understand. Why them?"

"I suspect some of it is quite simple. What's more complex is their method." Ben leaned back, his voice entering a long-familiar tone of musing. "Mm. That clarifies a little for me. Paik establishes a bioscience firm, an industry they've never had a foothold in and they have no real names on their staff. The firm lands in England, a stone's throw from Widmore, who _was_ in bioscience and which Paik buys, and the new firm's only particularly named officer is a former executive from Hanso."

"You think this all stems from them somehow? A distorted move from Hanso?"

Ben gave a light shrug. "That's the thing. I don't. Their founder hasn't moved, nor have any of the old Dharma remnants. But the latter have also been contacted, apparently by the same Paik sources that tried to approach you. So there's the layout. A move was put on Widmore. The initial move was started within Hanso, according to my information. Hanso sees a death in its corporate ladder, and then some movement in its staff. It ended externally, via Paik, and all sources have an expressed interest in Mittelos Bioscience."

Richard leaned back in the chair, absorbing the litany. "Where's the simple bit?"

"I can understand a personal interest from Paik, specifically the CEO, Woo-Jung Paik. His daughter and son in law are now both missing, presumed dead, and under mysterious circumstances. His granddaughter is missing, as far as he knows." Another flicker of the blue eyes as Richard started. "She is safe and cared for."

"Ben." Richard's tone was a warning.

"Woo-Jung is a thug." For the first time, some inflection entered Benjamin's voice. It was distaste tinted with anger. "His staff are gangsters. You saw Kwon's file. I've accomplished better parenting and I've been repeatedly informed I'm a bastard. The child deserves her inheritance. She could certainly do better in relations than her grandfather."

"Nonetheless, they are her family." Richard's voice was still sharp.

"Her _family_ gave itself up to the island." Ben's voice went flat again. "That makes matters our responsibility. I take that seriously and I will not give up a child to an incomprehensible and possibly dangerous situation. Woo-Jung is _not_ the main issue here. I don't know yet who is. The Paik bioscience officer, Flood, is a paper tiger. He's working for someone else. I don't know their interests yet. I doubt they're well-meant."

"Which means everyone who's worked for Mittelos may be a target for pressure. Again, thanks for the warning."

"I got your point the first time. This is a digression, Richard." The cold stare, the slight tilt of the head towards him.

Richard smiled. There was no mirth in it. "To hell with that. You used me as bait to watch these Paik moves."

"So I did. Over Hugo's objections, which I count as a mild personal victory. I admit there may be a taste of revenge here." Ben tilted his head slightly at Richard's blank look. "He's told me some interesting stories of the last days we all had together."

The older man shook his head. "I don't understand."

"What happened at the temple, Richard? What don't I remember?"

Something cold and sick dropped into his stomach.

"Hugo told me they tortured Sayid. To be sure he wouldn't be one of _them."_ The voice was deceptively mild. "It was handled very calmly. Like they were used to it, Dogen and the others. Hugo remembered it quite well." Ben arched an eyebrow. "I did warn that this was a digression."

"Ben." In an attempt to sound soothing, it came out a whisper.

"What did they do to me? When I was a _child?_ " A flare entered the blue eyes. "Did we do that to the other children, when we took them from the plane?"

Richard couldn't say anything.

"Did we torture them, too?"

He closed dark eyes. He knew Ben would take it as the confirmation he couldn't say.

"You knew."

In self-defense, he flashed back. "You never asked!"

"How could I ask? _I never knew!"_ It was a snap that bordered on a shout. The struggle to regain his composure was visible and Richard watched him take a deep breath before speaking again. "You and Jacob left me out of what happened at the temple."

"You would have overreacted. Like now. We had to be sure - "

"It doesn't matter." Ben cut him off with a vicious gesture. "Jacob's way is over, and I can at the very least be comforted by that. I didn't know. I didn't know to ask, though perhaps I should have pressed more. Pressed for something other than your notes." He exhaled. "Now we both get to live with our regrets." He stared off as Richard said nothing to that. "Here we are in wine country and you live like a hermit. What are you scared of? Life? Your last vestiges of connection to the island?"

"I'm not scared of anything." Defensive. The entire conversation had thrown him off his balance.

"Whatever. I'm here to take care of that last." He reached down to the briefcase, snapped it open, and pulled out a sheaf of paper. He thrust it at Richard. "I'm buying you out of Mittelos."

"Wh-" He didn't reach out for it.

"It's a fair deal, and if you invest it, you'll live like a king. Buy a vineyard, watch your fingernails grow. I don't care. I put in a list of local financial advisors that seem well respected. I particularly like the one in Pamplona. As a bonus, you'll stop getting visitors and they'll give up trying to tap your phone."

" _What?"_

_"_ Just sign so I can go." Ben glanced down at his watch. "I need to catch a flight in about two hours. You've been informed of what I'm willing to tell you. The emergency line remains available if something goes awry. In all other regards, you're out."

With numb fingers, Richard took the sheaf of paper and began to skim through it, looking for loopholes, looking for numbers. He caught sight of the buyout offer and raised both eyebrows. More than a fair deal. "Where are you going?"

"London." A quick, meaningless smile. "We've been doing some hiring."

. . .

_Chiyoda, Tokyo_

A pale, thin face was lit by gleaming computer screen. Scraggly, wild dark hair fell into the young man's eyes and he pushed it back with a slender hand. He licked his lips frequently, anxiety gnawing at the base of his stomach. Kanji, ascii images, obscure internet jokes scrolled on the screen while dark eyes bulged, reading but not reading. Futaba-chan held no real interest for him right then. It was just something to absorb while he waited to go _out._

The concept was always frightening to Josuiki Tsuchi. His parents had seemingly grown used to it; the long nights and the quiet scuttling from his little room. He would come out at night to eat while his family slept. He communicated solely by IM and text message. He banked by automation, he got work via a faceless website, and he contributed, at least a little, to his family's rent. He could do that much, even if face to face communication with them frightened him. He was terrified of what they'd say, despite his friends, the other faceless hikikomori supporting him. Terrified that he'd left everyone down. Terrified to try for more. Living with the fear was still better than dealing with Tokyo unemployment rates. Better than trying and failing miserably. It was okay now to stay in and live via electric ether. They even had their own little society.

But that night, Tsuchi had to go _out._ Some of the others he knew had banded together; that night they'd all go to Akihabara to get the new Monster Hunter game. It was supposed to be less frightening if they'd all emerge in a group. Instead, it was the opposite. His guts gnawed. His instincts said something would go wrong.

It took a gasp and a mindless push to get himself moving out the door as the hour crawled towards midnight.

. . .

Tsuchi stuck with the group for the entire trip despite his instincts, the five of them together, the one outlier cawing at drunken businessmen who swore back, gutter language. He knew something'd go bad. He was right; the bad blood was the cousin of one of the others, a youth that claimed to know yakuza in Roppongi. An asshole, in other words. Tsuchi kept his eyes closed as much as possible and pressed on, trying to be invisible. Avoiding the eyes of the shop owner who stayed open late for hikikomori business, took their money and more for the privilege, and still looked down on them for it.

A high screech drew his attention when the group scuttled out the shop door. "Hey, hey! _Gaijin_ fatboy! Lookeee!" Roppongi asshole was pointing at a Westerner leaning against a concrete pole, making cackling noises at the man. Tsuchi grew certain the asshole was on drugs.

The westerner looked back at his verbal abuser with a crinkled look of annoyance. "Dude. That's not nice."

"Fatboy!"

"And not really creative. I've had better, dude. You can't top a southern butthead for insults, man."

Roppongi unleashed a torrent of Japanese and broken English insults he'd clearly stolen from a bunch of cut-rate action movies. The other guy looked bored. Tsuchi tried to shrink in on himself. The others just shifted uncertainly, unsure of what to do. They said nothing. When Roppongi paused, the big guy spoke up again.

"If you're the kid I'm looking for, man, I make some rotten choices. You Tsuchi Josuiki?"

That made Tsuchi jump. Roppongi just cackled as the big westerner looked past him and towards Tsuchi. "Please tell me it's you instead. You understand me, right? Cuz this is real pointless if you don't. And I can ask for a beer in Japanese, about it."

Tsuchi clutched his plastic bag closer to himself, nodding a little. The westerner kept ignoring Roppongi, who'd given up on some of his insults as he wasn't getting any interesting response.

"Okay. If you're the kid I'm looking for, you're supposed to do translation work. English, Japanese, Korean. Buncha dialects."

"Internet only," he managed to squeak out, in English.

"Yeah, I can't do that. I need someone on hand. But on the bright side, I also pay in all-expenses covered trips to very private tropical islands. Plus money."

Roppongi, who could apparently follow some of all this, finally shut up and flat out stared at Tsuchi. So did the others in his group. If it was possible for a human being to shrink into their own personal pocket dimension, Tsuchi was working very hard on being the first to figure this out.

"You get your own little cabin, nobody bothers you if you don't want. And you could get some sun, dude, you look like hell. I read about you kids, you shut ins. That ain't healthy, dude." The guy shrugged and sauntered slowly towards him. There was a card clutched in a big hand and he shoved it out towards Tsuchi, who shrank back on instinct before gingerly reaching out to take it.

Roppongi pushed in, tried to snatch the card from the big guy while giving Tsuchi a dirty look. He inhaled and shrank back again when the man grabbed one of Roppongi's hands with his own. Roppongi went still and his eyes went wide. The big guy looked past him, back at Tsuchi, who found enough confidence to flick a hand forward and pluck the card from the man. This time, Roppongi didn't move. The big guy released him, gave him a look that Tsuchi couldn't read, and then looked back at Tsuchi. "I'm Hurley. You think it over. If you're in, phone or email anything on the card. We'll get it going." Roppongi began to back away, eyes still wide.

"Seriously, kid. Think about it. Get out of the house, get some color. You look like... I don't know, some whipped up Eastern version of Edward Scissorhands."

Tsuchi flushed, hand nearly crushing the card out of instinct. "'Kay."

"Okay? And if you gotta talk to a guy named Ben, don't freak out. He's like that to everybody." The big man rolled his eyes and turned to go. Tsuchi turned just a little to glance at the others, then back.

The big guy had vanished.

Roppongi fled down a side street, leaving the rest of the ragged little group to stand around in shock.


	8. It's Not The Roxbury

8.

_Night Not At The Roxbury – Yeah, That's Not Creepy, Ben – Informer – Om Shanti Shanti Not So Much – What's Up, Doc?_

_August 2009, London_

Club music thumped through the air and Ben's skull. The atmosphere was oppressive, smoke-filled, and dotted with hypnotic lights. Lyrics sang out, layered over primal techno beats, a La Roux remix informing the thrashing audience that the singer was, in fact, bulletproof. He ignored it as best he could, two aspirin doing their best even while their best wasn't very good, and his eyes picked out faces in the neon-spotted dark. Most danced and writhed, faces irrelevant, immediately forgotten as he continued to hunt. Hunched figures pressed against the black marble bar were harder to identify and he moved through the crowd seeking better angles for his examination.

Nothing.

A nerve tensed and twitched in his jaw, the only visible sign of his irritation. The club was too claustrophobic, too chaotic for his sensibilities. Nonetheless, his information placed his quarry here, so here he was. With no sign of what he sought.

Burying his unwillingness to deal with the scene, he slipped closer to the bar and locked eyes with a tall bartender whose expression molded into a bland cover of _you don't belong here_ as he sidled over to Ben. He flashed the photograph from his file at the tender, who tilted his head at it. "She's not here," the man drawled, thick Soho accent cutting through the noise.

The nerve jumped again. "Clearly," he replied, his tone terse. Something in his eyes must have shown his irritation. The tender put both his hands on the bar, regarding the small man with obvious caution. Ben inhaled, reigned in his temper. "Has she been here tonight?"

The tender continued to look him over, narrowing his eyes. He swore under his breath, then jerked his chin towards a staff doorway. "Back there, out the door, in the alley. You want her, you take your ass out of here and go around the building." A snort. "Good luck with it."

. . .

It was quieter outside, the bass beats dulled to a distant jungle rumble. _Mr. Livingston, I presume?_ muttered an internal sardonic voice. _The natives are restless._ Trash lined the alley, thin newspaper chip wraps, polystyrene cups, forgotten and disregarded butts, the clink of bottles. The dumpster loomed around the back end of the building, casting a deeper, smellier shadow. Ben paused, peering. Yes. There was a figure slumped against it. He sighed and moved closer to examine.

The woman was passed out. He could smell her from five feet away, but moved over closer yet to examine. He put a hand out to check her face, ensure she was, in fact, breathing. It came slow and shallow, rattling with the alcohol still in her throat. She remained unresponsive to any touch, sticky brown hair obscuring her face. He swore again. This one was not his first choice, but Hugo had insisted.

He gave her an experimental tug, testing her weight. She slumped, boneless. Average, but he didn't relish the thought of dragging her to the car. He let her go and thumped a hand on the club door. Again. Nothing. In exasperation, he kicked it. That got the door open. The same, familiar face from the bar glowered down at Ben in his neat black suit and fedora. "You again. Fuck off, I'm on break."

"I need a hand."

The man rattled a laugh. "Told you that you'd need luck."

"I've got a hundred pounds cash that says you pick this woman up and put her in the car that I bring. Two hundred if you can tell me where she lives and I'll take her there."

"How much for not telling the cops about you when they find her corpse?"

Ben rolled his eyes, pulled a couple of currency notes out of his pocket. He waggled them at the bartender. "I'm hiring her, not killing her."

The man shrugged and made the paper disappear. "Whatever. Get your fucking car. I know where she goes."

. . .

She woke up near noon the next day, groaning aloud as the sun beat into her eyeballs. "Whafu." She drew the back of her hand across her face, blocking the light. "Mrf." Squinted through, saw the bedroom curtains open and the windows cracked to let fresh air in. Looked around. She was home, still dressed in her clothes from the night before. Her thoughts came together enough to suggest that she'd managed to sleepwalk home. Not unusual. On the other hand, the open curtains were an oddity. _Someone's here._ A soft rustling sound from the living room confirmed the idea.

That got her fully awake. A hand fished under the bed, looking for the blackjack she kept there. Her dark eyes widened further when she found it missing. So was the bottle of Absolut she kept there for what she liked to call her 'medical emergencies.' She swore, the word hissing from her lips.

"There's coffee," called a dry voice from the other room. "It'll keep. Take a shower, as some well-meant advice."

She remained still, forehead thumping with the effort of thought and the chemical remnants of last night's binge. _Okay, rapist? Top ten weirdest I could imagine so far._

"The bottles are gone from the bathroom, too. I did a little housekeeping. Also, I have all day if necessary. Do get moving, please."

_Make that top five._ She looked around for her cellphone. That she saw on the bedside table, fully charged. "I'm gonna call the police!" The sound of her own voice made her head hurt worse.

"Do that if you like." Whoever he was, he sounded bored. "If it'll make you feel better. When they're done talking to me, I'll just be right back. I have tomorrow, too."

_What the hell?_ "That doesn't sound creepy at all."

"Yes, I'm sure this is all quite strange to you. Meanwhile, I've dealt with odder before breakfast. Which, I note, I haven't had. I think I saw a toaster somewhere. How about I do that while you _get moving?_ Things will become more reasonable once you're fully awake and I can explain what I'm doing here. Hm?"

She laid back on the bed and blinked a while before rising and going to wash.

. . .

Ben glanced up from the plate of buttered wheat toast when the woman emerged. He looked her over clinically, olive skin and an average, narrow face scrubbed free of alley stick. Dark brown hair tied back. Dark green eyes watched him with extreme wariness, flicking occasionally over to the flat's door to assess any need for escape. Another expression mingled there, one she was masking with some success. He examined it with interest. Was it recognition? "Good morning, Ms. Glaukopis." He gestured to the plate. "I found a bakery up the street that still had some fresh. It'll help dull the hangover I'm sure you're dealing with."

Kyra Glaukopis stayed in the bedroom doorway. "What do you want?" The muzziness was gone from her voice. Now she was alert. He regarded that as a solid improvement, a step towards convincing him of her usefulness. The tone she used was sharp. The question was a test. Very interesting.

"I'm doing a little hiring for the corporation I represent. We need an information specialist. By your tone, I think you may have some guesses who I'm with."

"I know who you are. Take your shit and get out." Tense, flat, edged with fear. Yes, she knew.

Ben dropped his gaze and put a pair of toast slices on another plate and pushed it towards her. Stuck under the plate was a thick brown envelope. He took a seat at the table with casual grace. "Charles Widmore had you hired several years ago to investigate Mittelos for him. You didn't get much to report to him from what I understand, but from the circumstances you would have battled, I think you did quite well. Well enough for our people to have our own file on you. Quite the career history."

"Do your people know that the CIA has a file on _you?_ "

That gave him pause. She knew more than he had been aware of. "That little tidbit wasn't in your report to Charles." He glanced up. "Not that it matters; he knew. He was the one that arranged that little escapade." He tilted his head. "Pulled some favors, tried to have me hunted like a _dog_ because it suited his fancy. It didn't work. It's also very old news and muddling without context. Circumstances have changed. We have some new faces in charge. New policies. I think you might find them more agreeable."

Kyra stuck a finger in the air. "One: I'm not working for you or for anyone related to you." Another finger joined the first. "Two: I don't do the job anymore. I'm retired. Three-" Three fingers in the air now. She dropped the flanking two and turned the fist and its remaining finger around to present the world-famous rude gesture. "I think you take the hint."

He arched an eyebrow, showing no sign of offense. "You're on the last dregs of your savings. You obviously have a severe drinking problem; your family has had no contact with you in five years. Whatever your personal issues are, I don't feel you're in much of a position to refuse an honest and open offer." After a moment's thought, he picked up a piece of toast and munched on it, face contemplative. He kept his tone distant. "I told Hugo repeatedly I had a better candidate in mind. Regardless of your prior ability."

That made her face tight and he watched it contort, privately amused. _When in doubt, prick the pride._ It was the limit of manipulation he was free to engage in, on Hugo's request. Free will kept the rule – but cutting through emotive barriers was useful. And it had been the truth. "I don't have a drinking problem," she snapped. He lifted his head up to regard her, eyebrow arched in polite disbelief. "I have a suicide problem."

Ben made a noncommittal noise in his throat. "Regardless." He gestured at the folder under the plate. "The full details of the contract are in that folder. It's entirely up to you to accept the job. If you have any questions about the nature of the deal, there's a line to call in and clarify anything." He allowed a brief smile. "Of course, if you remain unwilling to work with me while the offer itself tempts, adjustments can be made. My superior insists on the new hires being comfortable with the situation."

He rose from the table, flicking crumbs from his fingers. "With that said, I think I've done enough here. Keep the loaf. Do eat something, you don't look well. I hope we hear from you shortly."

He sensed her eyes watching him as he left.

. . .

_London – North Kensington, same day_

Krish Madhvacharya remained cross-legged on the floor of his rented studio flat, backs of his hands resting on his knees, dark brown eyes shut. He refused the chant, refused to open his eyes and look up to see the pictures of gurus and paintings of devas that his mother sent. No doubt it was his own refusal to submit to tradition caused his mediation to fail, but he tried on his own terms anyway. Seeking some sort of peace that had been denied him so far.

His skin remained pale yellow under his natural darker tan, the failings of his body becoming visible to anyone that looked. He grimaced, opened his eyes, and looked straight ahead at the blank wall instead. _I have a rollicking short term future in a Bollywood zombie movie. So there's that going for me._ He smiled for himself, eyes lidding in dozy weight. It didn't matter. He wouldn't sleep. Couldn't. _If I sleep, I'm afraid I'll die like my father did. And if I don't sleep, I AM eventually going to die._ His liver was already showing signs of stress. The first markers of diabetes had appeared. His heart felt like a freight train. The dementia hadn't landed. That he'd noticed, in any case. That was the most terrifying thing; what if he didn't notice?

He'd left his job last month anyway, just in case. The idea of losing control of himself in his little office at Suisse Bank terrified him. The idea of losing control at all was horrifying. No wonder the meditation didn't work; his mind was too busy playing Olympic ping-pong.

Once again, thoughts of suicide drifted through his mind, and once more, he dismissed it. _I want to live!_ Even in his mind, it sounded plaintive. Petulant. It wasn't the only reason he didn't harm himself. There was another – the nameless terror that whatever he was trying to avoid by not sleeping would come for him then, after death.

So he stayed home, locked in, trying to rest, trying to will himself into surviving. Some hours, he tried to butt through his father's copies of the Veda, others he played video games, his co ordination off and sluggish. Now, though, there was the envelope on the table. It had been delivered the night before, no explanation. Within lay a job offer, one he'd laughed off. He'd rejected several headhunters already, politely shut down several ex-coworkers with their networked offers of help. Nonetheless, a contract had slipped through by being jammed directly into the mail slot. No return address. No postage. Insane and inexplicable.

Yet it still tickled at his thoughts. Health care, work in a field he was used to – financial numbers – and apparently the field office was in the tropics. Hell, it'd be a great place to die, at the very worst.

Krish swore to himself and got up to read the contract one more time.

. . .

Dr. Albert Ellis fiddled with the neat little stack of paper, each sheet bright against his dark fingers. No brown envelope marked his sterile bioengineering lab, just slick, stapled paper and his instruments lining the counters of the room. Everything had a place, and everything to its place. The paper did not fit; it was an anomaly, something new and not under his control, but he accepted it. It came from Above, the faceless superiors of Mittelos Bioscience, and the paper explained his option to accept a volunteer transfer to a field office under the direct supervision of those same superiors.

It would entail a raise, although the paper also warned of possible activity beyond the lab. Details to be outlined at a later date, with the persistent right to opt out – that was a laugh, you killed your career by being unwilling to commit to the team. It made him nervous, not knowing all the details right off the bat. The variables. The what ifs.

He put the paper down on the antiseptic table and ran his fingers across the sides of his short, black hair. The bumps of thickly curling hair and scalp soothed him, reminded him who and where he was. It was a grounding, an abrupt and physical method of drawing up memories. Reminding himself that everything was fine. That everything would stay fine. The tremble left his fingers and he exhaled again.

Human immunity research in a tropic lab. Weird. Very, very weird. Then again, the entire facility had suffered a stroke of the fresh and strange since the CEO changeover to one Reyes. Gossip still talked about that – wasn't he one of the Oceanic survivors? Hadn't he disappeared again, only to reappear a little while ago with reshuffled investments? Nobody knew all the facts. Meanwhile, here was the man's signature on the transfer offer. No rubber stamp, a simple human scrawl.

Ellis flipped the paper over, seeing the handwritten PS again. His eyes followed the script. _I really hope you take this, sir. I totally understand if you don't, but we could really use your help out here. I promise everything'll be cool._ Signed again by the new CEO.

The doctor inhaled to himself one more time and started looking for a pen.


	9. Turbulence

9.

_Turbulence – Foot? What Foot? - Take A Hike – Deja Vu_

The small Beechcraft airplane landed with a soft thud at an airstrip surrounded by gently flowing jungle flora. Frank Lapidus sneered at his controls, despite its assurances of easy green across the board. His private flights for 'Herarat' – actually just another shell corporation for Mittelos' needs - were growing increasingly smoother and easier, though he still had a jolt of discomfort every time he touched down on the island. The flash of light and the sudden appearance of land where his instincts knew there should be nothing but vast and empty sea remained jarring. The money Hurley paid him, though... that was comforting. Along with the man's constantly repeated promises: that he would never be trapped, and he would always have a safe flight home. So far, so good. Too bad about ol' Bug Eyes still being local.

_Can't have everything, kiddo. There's always a bee in the beer._ He looked up from his flight log where he had been scribbling his notes and then over his shoulder at a slight groan from the cabin. Frank had gotten used to the oddities of the island trip. The new arrivals would have been jarred by the lightshow and turbulence of the approach and had been treated to a fairly clear and honest warning about it. All but one of them had opted in for a sedative to help them skip the worst of the trip. Least it had been optional. Bug Eyes had mentioned a now-obsolete and disturbing version of the tactic that resembled press-gang slavery more than anything else. He at least had the taste to sound contrite about it.

Frank tossed the flight log onto the copilot chair with a dismissive shrug, turned, and slid open the door to the cabin. The Indian guy was looking at him with a startled, wild expression, while the kid was rolling over in the first stages of wakefulness. The other two were still dead asleep. Frank grinned into the guy's dark eyes. "Weird as hell, right?"

"That wasn't turbulence!" The words were blurted in a clipped street-London dialect.

"Close enough, guy." The pilot looked him over. A bit frail, but what the hey. "You got it in you to help me with the luggage?"

. . .

The other three emerged from the plane as Frank hauled out the last of the large suitcases, the trio still looking baffled and dozy. Indian guy did alright by Frank's standards, plucking out some of the smaller bags and tossing them onto a rolling cart sitting on the still-new tarmac before the pilot took over and finished up. The place was still hot as hell, causing him to unbutton the top of his pilot's shirt and roll up the sleeves. Sweat glistened on silver-grey chest hair.

Frank looked over the rest of the arrivals; the wide-eyed and jumpy kid, the dour-faced woman, the tense-looking man with the labcoat over his arm, then shrugged. "Welcome to What The Fuck Isle, just off of the main island, which I like to call "What The Shit Is This, And Who Brought The Whiskey And The Dead Guy?" Long story, don't ask. I'll be helping you down to the beach where some other local fella's going to get you across the way. Dude in charge will be taking it from there." He turned to put a hand on the cart, then turned again to look at the odd little group. "And don't bother asking me questions, because generally speaking, I know less'n you do. Unless you wanna talk shop." He jerked his thumb at the Beechcraft. More baffled silence. "Thought so. Alright, let's hop."

. . .

The strip of coastline held a newly installed small dock. At it was tied up a private little ship with what looked like plenty of cargo space. The group watched their pilot grumble something at the two men idling around. They were aboard and shuttled across to the larger island within a half hour, the island itself towering over them.

. . .

On the beach of the main dock were more locals ready to grab up the luggage and some other small bits of cargo that had been in the ship. The new arrivals looked up and down a bright stretch of beach, the smell of sea and jungle green filling their nostrils. Just up from the dock, a large sun umbrella had been rooted in the sand. Underneath it, unmoving and prone in the bamboo chair, was a small man dressed in light brown linens. A jaunty straw fedora was pulled down to shade his closed eyes and his hands were clasped on his chest. A glass of some tan liquid adorned with a little red paper umbrella was wedged in the sand next to the chair, condensation glistening and dripping down its side. The rustle and bustle at the dock drew no movement from the man, nor any sound. The Indian man spotted the woman giving the quiet figure a jaw-twitching sneer before turning away to look for whoever was supposed to be meeting them.

"Dudes! You're early!" A big man in a red shirt and a baseball-style windbreaker burst out from the edge of the jungle, a meaty hand in the air flapping in a happy greeting. Most of the arrivals found themselves smiling back. The man's open demeanor was infectious. "Welcome to the island. You all introduced to each other?"

The guy with the labcoat shifted uncomfortably. "Didn't get the chance, I'm afraid. You're Mr. Reyes?"

"That's Hurley, dude. You're Doc Ellis. Glad you came. I'll stick with doc, sir, you had to work your butt off to get a title like that." The doctor blinked a little, then rubbed his dark hands together as if stuck for anything else to do. The guy – Hurley – pointed to the kid. "This is Tsuchi, he's gonna be doing some translating around here."

The Indian guy jutted his chin out in a friendly manner when Hurley turned towards him. "I'm Krish Madhvacharya." Another grin, a little tired-looking but still welcoming, as Hurley sounded the name out. "Stick with Krish. Everyone does."

"Bet you get sick of that one scene in _Office Space."_ The woman mumbled the words under her breath. "I'm Kyra."

Hurley rubbed his hands together. "Right. Krish is the numbers guy, Kyra does information or something." He jutted his chin toward her. "You're what exactly, an informant type deal? Ben kinda explained it. I know I signed off on everything, but sometimes I pick it up better as I go."

"Information broker. I go out and learn stuff that people don't want their competitors to know, then I go sell it to their competitors."

Hurley tilted his head, squinting as he thought it out. "Sounds kinda rough. You know anything good?"

The woman shrugged, crossed her arms across her chest. "I know all of Mr. Cluck's secret herbs and spices."

Hurley laughed. "Get outta here. I worked there, they made this big deal about having that sucker all locked up."

Kyra gave him another shrug as a reply, arching an eyebrow. She must have unbent slightly, as a small smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.

Hurley clapped his hands together. "Alright, that's cool. We got some names out, we're good to get started. I got the guys taking all your stuff to these little cottages we got for you. You all got your own, and I'll let you get settled in a little while. I gotta ask you to do one thing with me first, then we'll come back, get some food on, and take the rest of the night easy. Alright?"

General mumbles of assent. Hurley turned his head to call up the beach. "Hey Ben! You gonna join us?"

The figure under the umbrella stirred very slightly. A drawling voice came curling out from underneath the hat, eyes still wedged shut. "I'll pass, Hugo, thank you. Think I'll finish my tea and then go see to the digger. They're staring themselves silly at the foot, I believe."

The doctor arched a thick black eyebrow. "Foot?"

"Foot, dude." Hurley shrugged. "We'll get to that. So, okay. We're gonna go take a walk together. I want you to take your first good look at the place. I want you to see what I've got you here to see, okay?"

Krish spoke up, eyebrows knitting together in worry. "A long walk?" He glanced up towards the green-coated hills and sharp angles of the inner island. "More like a hike?" His voice sounded doubtful and weary. "I think I'm worn enough with getting here. I would please ask to pass for now."

Hurley stepped towards him. "I really need you to do this with me, and I promise you'll be okay." The big man reached out and gripped both of Krish's arms. The pressure was firm and comforting. "I gotcha. It'll be fine. You'll get a little more tired, but I absolutely promise that you can handle this." The voice was earnest. Despite his own doubts, Krish wanted to believe it. "This place is worth the push. Alright?" Hurley grinned when the man nodded after some hesitation. "Alright. C'mon! We got burgers and some chicken on the grill after this."

The little bunch followed after the bounding Hurley, with the dryly muttered words drifting unheard on the breeze behind them. _"Spa resort, I swear to the Lord, we're on the way. Luau's at eight. I'll bring the weenies."_

. . .

The hike started in jungle lowlands, where banyan trees crept in close. The shade they cast was dark and warm, bringing sweat to the group very quickly. Only Hurley seemed used to it; embraced it even, as they traveled from little stands of trees and at one point, across a wide, green plain. True to Hurley's promise, the Indian gentleman had no problems keeping up, although his heart pounded wildly in his chest. The others glanced at him now and again, realizing there was genuine concern for the man's health. Hurley however seemed unworried, continuing to lead them up a gently increasing slope. The path they took somehow avoided steepness and difficulty, though the hazy humidity made it hard to grasp how far or how high they had traveled so far.

The jungle itself went from quiet to musical to quiet again as the humidity burst into small misty drafts of rain. They were spared any storms, and the little bit of moisture helped to wick away the sweat. Birds sang in low tones, a larger one cawed now and again. Stands of thick and springy bamboo crackled on occasion, some mammal or another passing nearby. Again, Hurley took no concern and there was never a sense of danger. Just the lush smells of moss and grass, tropical flowers, and the lingering sweat of the travelers.

It took a few hours before the trail Hurley led them along began a steeper incline. He made sure to let everyone rest and take some water before finishing what he called 'the last leg of the first pilgrimage.' The phrasing gave some of them pause, glances flickering between the doctor and the woman, wondering what they had gotten into. "Just a phrase, dude," had been the followup, another light shrug. "We're almost there."

. . .

_There_ seemed to be a flat-topped peak. It came into view just ahead of the group, through a break in the trees. Hurley turned to the group and grinned. "One of the best views coming right up. C'mon." He flapped a hand out, urging them to hurry the last little way. "It's perfect. The weather's just clearing up. You'll see everything. Well, not everything, cuz the temple's further inland, but you'll get the idea."

Kyra mouthed the word _temple_ at Hurley with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah, it's kinda old. Lot of rough stuff happened there in the past, so I don't go there much. You'll get a chance to check it out later. Dude, c'mon."

. . .

The view was impossible to the travelers, strange and foreign, a thing never seen by any of them. A pure azure blue took half the horizon, the perfect mate of sea and sky. It was broken by a strip of golden-white beach in the distance, the beach's boundaries itself marred by lush jungle tops. They were high, very high, and overlooking a span of area not so far from where they had started. Below them, jutting up from the sand, was a foot. _The_ foot; carved of some old stone and of inhuman, four-toed proportion. Smaller figures milled around it, impossible to identify specifics from such a distance, but clearly people.

It was beautiful.

Hurley grinned at them of them in turn. "I told you guys. Heck of a view. Better than the first ones I got when I came here. God, that feels like forever ago, you know?" He shrugged, then jammed his hands in his pockets and looked over the dumbstruck group. "So whaddya think?"

Silence for a long while, broken by the distant song of some pair of birds. It was Krish that stepped forward a little more, confusion and wonderment marking his paled, weary face. He surveyed what was revealed, the vastness and strange architecture of the island they'd all been taken to with questioning eyes. A soft breeze rustled through their hair. He blinked for a while, then turned to the others, looking into each of their faces. When he spoke at last, it was with a voice full of soft reverence and wonder.

"Guys... Where _are_ we?"


	10. On The Dock Of The Bay

10.

_Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay – Spousal Duty – Bargaining – Awkward Phone Call - Meanwhile_

_South Beach Harbor, San Francisco_

Richard Alpert waited on the dock, hands tucked away in the pockets of a pair of black pants. His dark blue jacket flapped lightly in the seaborn wind, and he squinted at the name of the boat – _Our Mutual Friend -_ with a bland calm that belied gnawing worry. He didn't have to wait long with his thoughts. The door to belowdecks popped open with a quick snap, and a familiar face marked with both curiosity and mild suspicion rose into view.

"What're you doing here, brother?" Desmond Hume finished emerging onto the deck of his ship, once-shaggy hair trimmed back into neat shortness, a touch of grey emerging along the hairline. He crossed his arms across himself, gaze flicking up the dock for any other visitors. "Thought we were done with all of you. Thought I heard you were done with all of..." He shrugged. "All of that."

Richard forced an easy smile. "Hello, Desmond. I am, I think. Though at the risk of worrying you or convincing you I'm lying, I'm actually here to talk to your wife. Is she here?"

It was Desmond's turn to squint, looking Richard over without a response. One came from the still-open door to below instead. "Des?"

"It's all right, Penny. I'll be back down in a moment." He didn't take his eyes off Richard. "I don't think she needs to tal-" He cut himself off at the sound behind him and turned his head to see.

"What's wrong with your voice?" Penelope came up the stairs behind her husband. "What's... oh."

"I'll handle it, Penny. Can you stay with Charlie?" Penelope didn't move, instead looking at Desmond with a thoughtful expression.

Richard tried to crane his head to look Penny in the eyes. "Mrs. Hume, I'd really like to talk to you."

"I don't think it's a good idea, brother. I think it'd be best if you just go. Penny?" Desmond uncrossed his arms to reach a pleading hand towards his wife, who had taken another step forward. Her face had steeled itself into another expression, one of cautious curiosity. "Penny."

"I'm a big girl, Des. I can take care of this myself." She tossed him a quick smile. "He's playing with his trucks in there. I think he'd like it if you went down there with him. You know what all the little different ones are, I don't."

"Pen."

Instead of responding to her name, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and another smile. Defeated, he retreated belowdecks, but not without shooting Richard a warning glance. The door shut behind him as Penelope turned back to Richard. "Well, here I am. What did you want?"

Richard paused a moment to lick his lips and glance down at his feet, arranging his thoughts carefully. "I wanted to talk to you about the people that approached you to buy out your shares in Widmore."

"I see." Now she crossed her arms across her body. "Why?"

"I've ah... I've been approached and told some things are going on there. Things that affect people we still know, people we might still worry about. I've been approached, too, though not for a sale. Eloise was. Eloise Hawk-"

She cut him off with a lopsided smile. "I know who she is. My father kept me shielded from a great deal about his life, but I know she was part of it. I saw the paperwork, I know she was granted shares in the corporation." She tilted her head. "They bought her out. That's quite some consolidation going on there."

"The man that arranged those buyouts is dead. Did you know that?"

"No." Her eyebrows pinched together, thinking. "But he was from Hanso, I know that much."

"My visitors were from Paik." He watched as she shook her head. "I know, that makes no sense. But it's what I was told."

"By whom?" She searched his face when he didn't reply. "I see." She looked away, across the blue water, eyes lidding against the sun. "So there you are, I was approached by Hanso brokers. Is that all?"

"I wanted to talk about some more details you may know. Maybe you know more about your father's company that could me understand what's going on here."

"Maybe I do, at that." Penelope bit her lip, brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "This is for you, then. You're not representing _them._ " She jutted a chin at the ocean.

Richard shook his head.

"I may be able to do something. But first, I want something from you."

"I'm out, Mrs. Hume. I represent no companies, I have no contact with the island. There's not much I can give up."

"I find that hard to believe." She raised a hand to cut off his protest. "That you have no contact whatsoever. That man won't leave a possible informant alone."

He dropped his eyes and nodded. "I have an emergency line. A phone number. I can get word to them."

"I want that phone number. _He_ owes me an answer to a question. Now, it's not fair that I'm holding you to someone else's due, but let me worry about that. Give me the number, and a number where I can contact you. When I'm done with my part, I'll consider whether to help you. And when I do, I'll either call you. Or I won't. If I don't, that's your answer for help." Another flick at unruly hair. "It's the only bargain I have in this situation, and I'll use it. I'm sure you'll forgive me for being tired of being the one under risk." She watched his face for a response.

Richard opened his mouth, closed it again, then nodded. "All right. I'll wait for your call." He pulled out a pale brown card and scribbled the numbers on it, handing it over with a nonchalance he didn't feel. He finished the act with a half-bow and turned to go, letting her watch his back as he departed.

The situation, like many things over the last decade, had left his control and moved forward of its own volition. This time, it didn't leave him queasy. Instead, there was a lingering sense of amusement and respect. _She'd hate for it to be said, but I think she did learn a few useful things from her father. Bargaining is not a trivial skill._

. . .

Penelope waited until late at night, the card Alpert had given her tucked carefully under a book. She laid still until Charlie called out in a nightmare, and then after tending him, left her husband curled around the sleeping boy to comfort him the rest of the night. She waited even a little longer, sure that Desmond's breathing came soft and heavy, lost in deep rest. Then she slipped out from the cabin that she shared, took the little card and her cellphone, and slipped up to the deck of her home.

With hesitation, she plugged in the first set of numbers and let it softly ring for a long time. She held her breath, waiting, as the click came as someone picked up on the other end.

_"Mittelos, Office 108. How may I direct your call?"_

Her breath came with a shared measure of startlement and relief. It wasn't him. Not yet. "I would like to speak to Mr. Linus."

The voice on the other end took a long pause. _"Mr. Linus is seldom in the office, ma'am. May I take a message?"_

"No." She inhaled. "Please have him call me back directly. This is Penelope Hume and it is quite important."

Another long pause. _"Very well, Mrs. Hume. It may take a little while. Mr. Linus travels frequently. Please give me a number to contact you."_

She did, then hung up and leaned back to look up at stars hanging bright in a midnight sky. The phone hung loosely in her hand, and she nearly dropped it when it vibrated her back out of her thoughts less than ten minutes later. She pressed accept, put it to her ear, and held her breath.

_"Mrs. Hume?"_ The voice was careful, not so much a monotone as kept to a bland and nonthreatening standard. Penelope sat there, frozen by the reality of it. _"Mrs. Hume? I apologize if the connection is poor. I might try again."_

"No. I'm here."

_"I am to understand that this call is important. Who gave you this number?"_

"Richard did." She looked down at the smooth, waxed floor of the deck. "It's very important."

There was silence from the other end of the phone. Penelope could picture him, sitting very still and waiting for her to get on with it. The image she kept wore the same clothes as that day. She didn't know him in any other fashion. She found the image unnerving, wondering how close he kept a gun. Was he at a desk? Did it sit next to him, in a drawer?

The image continued into a quick flash of memory, and she blurted it out. "You came to hurt me."

It was his turn to let the phone line sit in an unbearable span of empty air. Finally - _"Yes."_

"You were there, you had the gun, and my son came out from the cabin and the rest happened. My Des in the hospital, you got away."

_"Yes. Like that."_

She gritted her teeth, replayed the memory. His face. The dip of the gun. Was that real? "My son came up and you saw him. Desmond charged you into the water. What happened in between?"

Another pause. _"Excuse me?"_

Was the memory real? She closed her eyes. "You hated my father. Your quarrel wasn't with me."

_"My daughter died. I thought it fair at the time."_

"And my son would have had no mother."

_"But he does."_

She opened her eyes. In the tone, somewhere in the crackle of static, in a crack she thought she might yet still have imagined, she had her answer. "You changed your mind. I saw the gun dip, just before he hit you. I did, didn't I?"

There was no response. She heard one anyway. "I accept your note."

_"Mrs. Hume?"_

"I forgive you." She hung up on him and rested the phone against her forehead, feeling both lighter and somehow heavier than she thought possible.

. . .

Across the sea, Benjamin Linus sat at a slim wooden desk in the study of his new island home, an expression of pure shock on his face. The phone rested, forgotten, in his hand. The bleating of it fell on empty ears as he stared out a window and into a dawning morning.

. . .

_London, England_

William Flood, the fledgling CEO of the European bioscence branch of Paik, paced within the confines of his office. He shook his head at regular intervals, nearly losing the earbud style of phone he had clamped to the side of his head. "No, sir. I don't know. I told you all that we found; some random movement out of their office in Portland. Seasonal hiring. Nothing that tossed up a red flag. No- no, I've got people watching as closely as legally poss-"

He grimaced. "Sir, I don't think this is a good time to consider the illegal options. Not yet." _Because for one damned thing, if our guys get caught doing that shit, it's my ass out on the wind._

If Bill Flood were slightly more moral or even focused on his own life, he might have contrasted his concerns about illegal observation and wiretapping with his history of murder, but at that particular moment, the thought never crossed his mind.

"Yes, I'm still going through the files. Half of it's still under recovery; everything we took from Hicks is nearly useless. I've got a one inch stack of paper about a two year study of polar bear shit. That's the sort of thing I'm dealing with. Yes, I'm having people in our office do the work with me. I can't very well do all of it. I realize it's top security. Sir. Sir." He continued to pace, his stride taking him next to a pile of sagging cardboard boxes that smelled faintly of smoke and burnt rubber and metal. Stamped on one of them was the logo of the Lighthouse Dharma station. "Yes, it remains my top priority. You know, when I'm not trying to convince people I'm qualified to run a bioscience facility!" He snapped the last, then paled at his own insolence. He remained quiet for a long while.

"No, I don't need to join you in Korea. I'm fine. I can handle this. Yes, sir. I know sir, I'm very sorry." Another set of paces, then a pause at some implied threat. "I'm up to the job, sir. I'll find you what you wanted to know. Meanwhile, can I advise working on some loose ends?"

The response brought him a smile. Here was something he knew how to handle. "Don't worry about a thing, sir. It'll take a little while, but we'll get the cleanup underway."


	11. Special Delivery

11.

_New Age Bookshelves – So Yeah, The Foot – Hurley Stares At Ben For Once – Akkadian Exposition – Special Delivery For a Mrs. Hume_

_The Island_

"I don't know how much you guys know, but this place is fucked up. Seriously, incontrovertibly, astonishingly fucked up. I could make my career on explaining exactly how and why this is, but all my books on the topic – and there would be a lot, people – would end up on the shelf next to Von Daniken and Sitchin." The woman – she had introduced herself to the four new arrivals on their second night as Renee Kircher, an archaeologist - flicked her lighter shut and then dismissed it, dropping it onto the beach blanket next to her. She leaned back and took a contemplative drag on the cigarette, eyes half lidding against the campfire glare. "But I think I might outsell 'em." She plucked a stray leaf of tobacco from her lower lip, then looked at the rest of her audience and grinned. "I love it. It's amazing."

They were five that night, huddled around the crackling warmth of the fire and the darker, delicious smells of grilling fish. Five of them in the shadow of a statue that the speaker looked at with genuine love and reverence.

"Assume we don't know jack, which is a safe assumption, because we don't." Kyra shrugged, then resettled herself on the sand. "We've been here a week, and I can tell you this beats the shit out of the time I did a job for one of those Caribbean resort mills. Which suck, by the way, never go to one of them. It's about as fake as Tom Cruise's marriage and they don't pay for ass. Anyway." She flicked a finger toward Krish. "Figure this out, we got a weird crack team lineup that looks pretty good for some sort of globalized business attack and... an archaelogist. That's pretty weird itself. So you telling me this is weird isn't fresh news. Krish looks ten times healthier now than he did earlier this week, that sets a new bar for weird, according to him. Plus, there's that temple inland that looks kind of like Angkor Wat. The statue – what was that, Egyptian? What else? Does it get weirder?"

The digger clamped her cigarette in her mouth for a moment, jerked her thumb back towards the foot, and rustled for a stack of paper she was sitting on. "Been in there to see that tapestry?" she asked, the words muddled around the butt.

Tsuchi nodded. "Piece missing." Krish managed a grin at the kid; he'd opened up very slightly during the week.

"Nah, the dudes in charge have it. Tapestry itself is weird; Greek and Egyptian all mixed up like that. Usually see that on commerce tablets, the occasional royal decree. And the age of it is weird, it's not the right era. They let me send out fragments for carbon dating or fabric analysis, and that tapestry is definitely not Ptolemic. It's only a couple hundred years, but it's like it was made in a time capsule or something. If it's a fake, it's amazing. In any case, I'm digressing. The scrap they have indicates the statue was a very odd representation of Tawaret." Another long drag as the cigarette gutted out. She stamped it down and then flicked it into the fire. "Kind of androgynous, which is unheard of for that particular deity. But the kicker is how old it is – old, dates back to Old Kingdom itself – and that it was _hollowed out_ later for this guy 'Jacob' to live in. That right there tells me civilization has been on this island for at least three thousand years. Suck on that a moment."

"All right." This from the doctor, who sat crosslegged, fingers plucking constantly at the sand that collected on the tops of his shoes. He had a permanent expression of discomfort. While the young Japanese man had loosened slightly since the arrival, he seemed to have tensed further.

"That statue? Taken out by a 19th century slaving vessel, which only worked because the act of hollowing the statue's lower body caused a weakened structure. According to the guys, that ship had something to do with the trading companies and the New World economy. It's inland, too. Not far from that? A crashed plane with a Nigerian registry. For one thing, the geography of this place is off the charts. Here be dragons, because that little plane could not have gotten to the same place as that ship without there being either a lie, a tesseract, or drugs involved. But I'm not done yet!"

. . .

Ben sat in his study, quietly absorbing Kircher's findings. Hurley sat across from him, hands fiddling with a can of Mountain Dew. The tin made scrabbling, distracting noises across the wood of Ben's table. He glanced up occasionally to catch Hurley looking at him with an odd expression, then back down at the papers and the glossy photos marred with the woman's scrawls. The can scraped again and Ben licked his lips, contemplated saying something, and then let it go.

Another scrape a moment later. Ben tilted his head, grimaced, then grabbed a thin book, reached across the desk, picked up Hurley's wrist, and stuck the book under the can.

"Sorry, dude. I didn't realize I was doing that." Hurley puttered with the can for a moment, then let it go, putting his hands in his lap like a punished schoolboy. "Was kinda in my own thoughts."

"It's fine, Hugo. The digger's demeanor is coarse and inane enough, but her analysis makes up for it in density. I'm having to give some effort to this." He put the papers down and lifted his head. "Also, you're staring at me."

"Yeah, usually that's your gig. Sorry."

"Stop saying _sorry._ What's on your mind?" He rubbed his temple. Another headache was settling in.

"You alright? Been weird for a few days. Weirder."

"I'm fine." He glanced up, noting by Hurley's expression that it wasn't a detailed enough answer. "I had a disruptive phone call. It appears to be fine. I was merely unsettled. Am unsettled. It will pass." He gestured at the papers. "This is more confusing. I'm inclined to let her down there for a proper look to make sure. Of course, that's your final call."

"You really think it's okay?"

"As I say, your call. We picked her because of her speciality in this area. One of us ought supervise, and of course nothing can be touched or meddled with, but it might provide fodder for thought." A wan smile. "I admit, it's somewhat humbling to realize just how little any of us knew about this place."

"'Kay. I'll think it over."

"It's more important what comes next for the rest of them. I'm getting concerned."

Hurley gave him a worried look.

. . .

Renee was sitting up again, giving each of them a meaningful look in turn. "I'm trying to get them to let me into this underground site on the island. They're concerned about letting others in this place, kind of a crucible in the island, but the conclusions that I've been drawing... I really need to be sure before I can back my own findings." She shrugged. "From what they're describing to me, this place is older than Old Kingdom Egypt. A lot older." She paused.

Krish knew a leading line when he heard it, rolled his eyes before giving in. "How old?

"Four thousand years or more. They're describing to me glyphics that resemble Assyrian cuneiform. Akkadian, maybe, and I guess they think the same, and that's why I'm here. It beats what I was doing, but that's a different story. Anyway, there's some sort of pool and ritual _stele_ down there that predate the concept of the Egyptian djed, according to their description. Further, there's bodies that I want to look at, very old, possibly caretakers or some other sort of service."

"We're lost." Krish flicked a hand at her.

"It's not that important. It's just really interesting. See, the fact that it's underground is trippy stuff. The only place like that is the Osireion, and that came two thousand years later. It's part of global imagery; axis mundi, where the tree of the world meets the soul of the universe. But this thing goes _down_ , whereas, if it's Akkadian, they were typically more interested in going _up._ You heard of the Tower of Babel, right?"

Doc Ellis nodded. " _And they said: 'Come, let us build us a city, and a tower, with its top in heaven, and let us make us a name; lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.'_ " A thin smile. "Book of Genesis. I had to choose; Sunday school or hanging out with the gangs."

"Sounds like a safe choice," said Krish.

"Not really." Another thin smile, this one with a tint of sadness at the eyes.

Renee shrugged. "That's the one. It was real, by the by. The ziggurat of Marduk, Etemenanki. Which this place still predates, but. What I'm wondering, and what I threw at the guys as a theory, is if maybe this place was once dedicated to Inanna instead. That fits more with her-" at that, the thumb jutted over her shoulder again. "And with this theme of fertility that I'm finding in the temple hieroglyphs. It makes more sense, considering."

"Considering what?"

"The very old mother/prostitution cults that sprang up over Inanna's descent into the underworld."

Kyra dropped back onto her elbows. "That does sound pretty fucked up. But you don't sound as weirded out by the fact that all this is in the middle of Oceanic East Jesus, just up the current from the Beats Me Gulf."

Renee gave the other woman a wild smile. "Why the hell not? Akkadian culture set the tone for later dynasties of Sumer and spread semitic culture across Europe and Asia. Possibly Africa as well, if my girl's right. Akkad was the first great empire. And we still can't find its goddamn capital. Screw Schliemann and Troy; we can't find Sargon I's pimping playground. Maybe it's under Baghdad. _Nobody knows._ Can tell you this much; there's almost no chance of getting into Iraq to take a look these days.

"So you give me a chance to check out some crazy maybe place off the seacharts when I can't get into Iraq and I've gotten kicked out of Egypt, you think I'm gonna turn that down? For all I know, guys... _this_ was Akkad's lost capital. Or a fragment of it."

. . .

"Why are you concerned, dude?"

"There has been a distinct lack of movement on the part of Paik. From what I can gather based on public information, there was a flurry of activity at Widmore when they bought in, and since then, little else. Further, Eloise Hawking was kind enough to send a note regarding the... mysterious _arson_ that usefully destroyed the Lamp Post Station. There were some independent investigators mixed in with the fire and police, and since that time, she has been concerned that the fire was not thorough enough."

Hurley tilted his head. "I missed something there, dude. I know she was all in that place and watching it, but you told me it got cooked and - "

"She burned it down, Hugo. Everyone else thinks it was just a random church arson." Ben rubbed a hand across his face. "That's the joke."

"Oh. Duh. Sorry." Hurley shifted, uncomfortably. "I was always more of an _Airplane_ sort of guy. Obvious jokes."

"I know." There was a brief, weighty undertone of exasperation. "I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And the more I think about certain recent events, the more I grow concerned."

"We're back to that unsettled thing, right?"

"Right." Ben stared across the room, past Hugo's head. "I find myself in the unenviable position of having to suggest safety precautions regarding the daughter of my worst enemy." He glanced to the side at Hugo's puzzled expression. "You know, the one I tried once to _shoot_?" The blue gaze dropped again towards complex dissertations of Akkadian history. "I am concerned that the brief contact I had may have been a prelude of things to come. We're going to have another front of trouble to deal with, Hugo. Despite our best efforts at defense, and considering your preferences of protecting those we have dealt with, I'm afraid we have a vulnerable flank."

. . .

_Los Angeles, California_

It was a dirty, banged up van advertising grocer meats along its side in both English and Spanish. The phone number underneath led to an answering service checked regularly by a bored woman who weeded out the rare caller interested in the per-pound price of 85/15 chuck and forwarded on calls that carefully used pre-arranged code words. The driver was himself dirty and banged up, close-cut hair around a meaty but otherwise ordinary face. The arm that hung out the window was clothed in a butcher's white coat. It was one of a thousand such unnoticeable vans that thronged every city. The human gaze slid over it like it wasn't there. A cop that ran the plate would find it clean and unremarkable, tail lights in good order, not a single reason to pull it over. Not a single reason to suspect it did not carry a butcher and his produce.

Although it could be argued that, in fact, it did carry such a cargo in its windowless back. Seated, motionless and silent, was a slender man in black, city fatigues folded into a carryall at his feet. Next to him was the narrow plastic case that carried his SIG-Sauer SSG 3000. The man knew every ding and curve of the polymer stock, the precise kick of the weapon when it fired. He knew every nubble of the case and the cold metal shell of each .308 cartridge. He was less interested in the memories of human faces. It made his job easier. Much easier.

Otherwise, he might have actually had a twinge of guilt at being told to kill an unarmed woman.


	12. Finger Lickin' Tales

12.

_Finger Lickin' Tales – Tonight on the Biography Channel – Monster Hunter Whee - Spider Senses – Lunch, Interrupted_

"...Paprika, garlic salt, pepper, and of course, lard. Some secret recipe, right? The spice ratio is a bit more interesting, but it's still bull. Nothing that 'secret' about it. All the same stuff can be found in Paula Deen's fingernails." Kyra shrugged, flashed a grin at Krish as he sat cross-legged across from her on a thin blue mat. "You all right?"

He returned the usual weary smile. She'd invited herself into his cottage with that easy, pushy confidence she had. The initial irritation had faded quickly in favor of being glad for company – and interested company, at that. _Looking interested is part of her job,_ the sarcastic part of his mind said. Nonetheless, she'd listened with an open, interested face as he pointed out his mother's pictures of gurus and blue-skinned devas, giving brief mythical bios before flopping onto a pillow across from his mat. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, no, you're not, but whatever." She jutted her chin up towards the pictures. "Said your mom sent those?"

"She did, yes." Krish chuckled, leaned back with a wince. While the environment had proven to be an enormous boon to his health, it hadn't erased every symptom entirely. He still wasn't sleeping, and that meant a stiff and easily-worn body. He'd still take it over the alternative. His mind felt more alert than it'd had in months. "She is far more into the faith than I am, I'm afraid."

"Ah. Old country Hindu."

Krish coughed a short laugh. "My mother is a stout little dark Irish woman, raised Catholic. She, ah..." He dropped his eyes, the memories rueful, funny, and sad. "She took to my father's faith rather hard after he died, looking for comfort. I was quite young."

She peered at him, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes with a tint of green. "Yeah, you don't look Irish."

"Luck of the genetic draw." He shrugged. "It was her way of holding on to him, I suppose. We don't discuss it much."

"'Kay." She folded her hands together and dropped them into her lap as she pulled herself into a pose matching his. "What happened to him? Your dad." She pulled a grimace. "If it's not my business, just say so. I know being nosy is my job, but I don't try to be an ass to my neighbors."

He grunted, a soft noise more out of surprise that her statement echoed his earlier thoughts. "He died in his sleep."

Kyra looked nonplussed. "That's... not so bad?"

"He was thirty-four. In perfect health at the time." A wan smile. "His heart just stopped. Like the Laotian men."

"Sorry?"

"East of India, it happens sometimes. Young men and children just die in their sleep. This was rare, and it nearly destroyed my mother." He shrugged.

A light dawned on her face. "And you got a complex about sleeping."

"No." He began to laugh again, coughing into his hand as his body rejected the activity. "I mean, yes. But that is the joke. That isn't the problem."

She sat still, watching him. He glanced up, saw the look of concerned seriousness on her face, and lost himself in another painful laugh. "He would have died anyway, it seems. Like I am going to." He looked back up at her, corners of his lips twitching in a wry grin. "I was afraid of sleeping, yes, because of what happened. But now I can't. Luck of the genetic draw."

When Krish stopped laughing, he looked up to find Kyra staring at him with an inspecting, probing worry that caused a nearly physical recoil. He was unused to that level of study, preferring a simple, unnoticed life. She opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by the sound of a thwack on the front door. "I'd better get that," he said, defying her next question with a touch of relief. Dry amusement aside, the conversation had gone very personal very quickly – his own fault, he knew; some desire to share what he carried - and a part of him felt it would be wise to consider what had already been said before discussing his issues further.

He rose carefully and noted the small shadow that cast itself against the windows along the cabin door. Opening it revealed Ben, a polite expression on his face despite tight lips. The smaller man looked up at Krish in greeting, then flicked the piercing blue gaze beyond him and into the house. "There you are."

"Here I am," Kyra said behind Krish. He could hear the caution in her voice. That would be a good topic for another time – Mr. Linus had been a perfect, polite gentleman since their arrival. She obviously felt different.

"I ask you to accompany me, Ms. Glaukopis. It seems it's come time for me to ask that we get down to business." Ben dipped his head in a curious gesture of respect. "I expect Hugo will join us later as we get down to details."

"Right." Still the tension in her voice, even as Krish sensed her rise behind him and then just barely felt her brush by. She paused to turn her face up to his. "Take it easy, alright? Anything I can do?"

Krish smiled, finding himself touched that she asked. "No." He dipped his head in a way similar to Ben's and went back into his cabin to think in silence.

. . .

"No, no, no… aw crap, dude, it's not going to hit the trap. It's not gonna hit the trap!" Hurley mashed buttons with a frantic, hurried need, bending forward and half-rising from the couch. On the TV screen, a small figure in digital furs and leathers turned and began to run at an angle away from what appeared to be a giant dinosaur painted in riotous colors. A smaller figure could be seen moving around in the background, apparently off on its own mission to try and recover the situation.

Tsuchi sat on another couch, facing another TV, his fingers flying around the Wiimote with precision. "Run back towards me." His voice was low and serious.

"I'm gonna get eaten!"

"Trust me. Run back. The trap is fine."

"Fffuuuuu…" Hurley twisted the controller around in a mimicry of his character, blindly charging the little fur-wearing monster hunter back the way he'd just come. The screen seemed to shake as the neon punk dino-thing also swerved to catch up to its little prey – and caught on something nearly invisible against the digitally painted background. It fell with a roar while Tsuchi's little hunter charged in to start stabbing with a polearm. Hurley joined in, getting a couple of shots off as the monster quivered once, and then fell still. "Man, I suck at this game." He put the controller down on top of the table.

The young man managed a quick smile; with a game in front of him, or his laptop, he was fast and outgoing, seemingly normal. Take them away and he returned to fidgety unease. An improving fidgety unease, but still. Hurley had started regular gaming nights with the kid, figuring that the fun and easy socialization (the latest big word Ben had taught him) might help the kid out. Also, what the hell. Hurley was behind on video games. It was something familiar from the old world.

"Want a soda?" Tsuchi was up out of his seat and ambling towards the kitchen.

Hurley paused, ready to answer, when something, some thought, tickled across his mind and then vanished before he fully comprehended it. "…Sure, dude." His hesitancy earned him a backwards glance before the dark head disappeared behind a fridge door.

The tickling sensation came again. "Uh."

"Hurley?" The mop of dark hair popped up over the door.

"Spider senses are tingling. I'm okay." Hurley put a hand up to his forehead, now feeling a sense of ghostly pressure. "Something's not right, but I'm okay." He put the other hand out for the can of Dew, still sensing the look from Tsuchi. He popped the top, took a slug of liquid, then sat for a few, holding the can. "I think we better take a break for a few."

Tsuchi popped his own can open and sat back on the couch, watching him with a rabbity look of concern. The oddity of his behavior was causing a step back for the kid, but Hurley couldn't help it. He was right on the edge of something.

. . .

Richard Alpert rose from his seat with a look of mingled relief and surprise that the meeting was actually occurring. "Mrs. Hume. I'm very glad to see you." He gestured to the seat across from him, a white bamboo chair caught in the softened sunlight of the restaurant window. "I arrived early and wound up with a table. I hope this is alright with you."

Penelope gave him a warm, if nervous smile and slipped into the seat, draping the handle of her purse on its arm. She clasped her hands before her and gave a light shrug. "I asked for the meet, it'd be quite rude of me to renege."

"It would still be within your rights, under the circumstances." Richard smoothed his tie against him as he sat back down, squinting out the window at the passersby. "I can be glad for the courtesy." A waiter came by and filled their glasses with ice water. Richard watched the liquid slosh and settle before continuing. "I assume everything has gone well on your end. The, ah, call." He picked up the crystal glass and took a sip.

"Yes." Her response was simple, but the tone that carried the word was complex. He chose to leave it be, unraveled. "I made some other calls when the time was good. I may have sold my shares, but there are many in the corporation who still know me as the boss's daughter." A little smile. "They were more than happy to share their condolences and their gossip." She tilted her head at him. "Many of the upper management were very surprised by their acquisition by Paik. Of course, some sort of purchase was likely, under the… circumstances, but Paik was an unexpected choice."

"I've seen the public holdings; Paik's move into Widmore's bioscience fields was abrupt."

"Too abrupt. Mr. Alpert, my father's colleagues have the files the financial papers do not. Paik Bioscience didn't exist until a month before the formal acquisition of Widmore, despite the breadcrumbs given out to pretend it was an older internal project. The groundwork for the new division was laid in January of 2008." She stressed the dates, indicating their importance. He studied her face for the answer. "They were ready to create this new division almost two years ago. They prepared it the moment my father was announced dead." She shook her head. "They waited until it was needed. They knew it _would be_ needed. Paik Bioscience is a shell corporation designed to manage Widmore. Nothing more. Their offices are a beehive of busywork and paper, according to the old family friends that had visited." She took a sip of water and sat back.

Richard studied her face, absorbing the information. "But they were not the ones to start purchasing stock in the company."

"No, that was the dead executive you told me about. The one from Hanso; the one who was murdered. You might have mentioned that last." She sounded reproachful. "The poor man must have got a jump on their plans."

"Paik had him murdered. Then somehow finagled his stocks back into their hands."

"He worked very closely with Paik's new Mr. Flood during his time with Hanso. Did you know that?" She put the glass down, then murmured something to the waiter when he approached. Richard ordered himself a light chicken salad sandwich. After he left, she continued. "Mr. Flood's alibi is very solid. There's no chance he did it, according to the Copenhagen police." She gave him a tight, wry grin. "One of those horrible coincidences."

Richard returned the smile with a similar one of his own. "Back on the island, we knew all about coincidences."

"I'm sure." A note of cautious distaste. There was a flicker of red light against the crystal of her glass, refracting and shining for a second before disappearing. Richard dismissed it as the gleam from some car's rear, or even a bicycle light. "You indicated that you had been told something is important about this, something is going on. I still need to call some people, there's indeed something very odd going on in all this, but I wanted you to know what I'd found so far."

Richard bowed his head, lifting it again as the sandwich arrived. "I'm very appreciative, Mrs. Hume."

"Call me Penelope, please, unless Des is with us." She flashed him a prim smile. "I've had to explain to him what I'm up to and of course he does not approve."

"Very understandable."

"I agree; it's one of those messy little moments that make marriage interesting. He's upset, but he's abiding." The red light flashed by again, this time catching Richard's notice more strongly before it vanished. He had seen neither bike nor car that time. "There's one more trail I can give you for now."

. . .

Ben blew across the mug of tea and pushed it across his kitchen counter at Kyra. "There we are, a nice oolong with honey." He flashed a bright smile at her terse expression. "It's also completely free of poison or other toxic possibilities. It's all very antioxidant. I read that in one of those terrible personal health magazines while I was on a plane recently. A shame we have to taunt people into trying good things by shamming them about how trendily _healthy_ it all is. But there you have it."

She kept her peace and her dour, staring expression, but did slide a hand out to curl it around the mug's handle.

"Lord, lately I've been the one getting stared at. Once upon a time, that was _my_ job." He sighed. "Let me cut to the pertinent parts, it'll spare us 'face time.' I want you to find some way into the Paik Bioscience facility in London and get any files, any documents, _anything_ that we can later analyze out of their CEO's office. As soon as possible, but I am aware of the difference between reality and your better spy drama. Tax documents, communiqués, anything. Any language, of course. Be it a digital invasion or infiltration." He shrugged. "I'm prepared to offer any assistance in this you may need, financial or otherwise. There are certain caveats."

"Such as?" She brought the mug up to her lips, sipped, then closed her eyes. "Okay, that's good tea. I still think you're a creepy little bastard, but that is a damn good drink."

He tilted his head at the grudging compliment. "Thank you. Hugo would prefer no harm done to another if at all possible."

"You must hate that."

"I find it stifling in certain circumstances – as Al Capone famously knew, you can get more with a kind word and a gun than just with a kind word – but I understand and respect his viewpoint in this. If there is no other option and your very safety is at risk, well, that is a matter for judgment." The shoulders lifted in a light shrug, dropped again. "Your assessment of the job?"

She put the mug down, then seemed to stare through him, thinking aloud. "They're going to have an internal network, if they're smart. It's a safe bet that they do. No general public access. Remote accounts will all be vetted and monitored by their IT department, and what those accounts can do will be very limited. Getting onsite will have similar issues; any good tech joint has a combination of on site security and keycards slash IDs. The better ones have very complex digital keycards, even. Tech labs tend to have DNA or print verification as well."

"I confess, it sounds intimidating."

"Mm. There's one, simple, first step."

Ben arched an eyebrow in query.

"Find their sysop. Any complex system can be circumvented by going a direct route. And I have a very direct route."

"I am hesitant to ask."

She chuckled. "A good rack. I need a flight to London and an expense account. Don't worry, I'm not going to buy out Soho. Typically – but not always – it doesn't take much to impress a computer geek. As a bonus, I even speak some Linux and Python. It's irresistible to those guys. Trust me, I can get in."

Ben held his silence, loathe to admit that he was unsure what a Linux was. He suspected it was an OS or programming language, but better to be still and look wise and figure it out later.

He waited for her to work on her tea a little longer before speaking again. "Of course. I'll handle all the flight arrangements for you-" He turned his head as the front door smacked open.

"Dude!"

"Ah, Hugo. Perfect timing, I needed to discuss Ms.-"

The big man cut him off. "Do you have your phone with you? The little cell?"

Ben studied Hurley's face as he barged across the room. It was filled with tension, the knitted forehead of a man with a headache, wild eyes. Rather than play word games, his instinct told him to fish in his pocket for the slim Nokia. "Of course, Hugo."

"I need you to call her back. Right now." He flapped a meaty hand. "Her. Crap. Des's wife."

"Penelope?" Ben saw Kyra glancing back and forth between them out of the corner of his eye, a startled expression on her face.

"Call her, dude. Now."

"Hu-"

"NOW."

At a total loss for words, Ben snapped the phone open and flipped through its call history.

. . .

Penelope leaned towards him, her tone dropping into the confidential. Richard bent his head to listen. "Hawking and I were not the only ones approached. There's more people you might like to talk to. In fact, I suggest it. I think they may know a great deal beyond this financial matter, possibly even something more useful than that. I-" A bleating noise came from her purse. "Oh dear, it's probably about poor Charlie. He was a little ill this morning." She leaned back abruptly, trying to nudge her purse open in time to dig up the phone before it gave up, fingers pausing as a sharp, cracking noise broke the air between them.

Later, Richard would swear to himself that he saw the bullet flash inches from Mrs. Hume's face, but of course, that was impossible. What was a fact was noting the spreading spiderweb-crackled hole in the window and then, instinctively, pushing himself up from the table and lunging towards the woman. His momentum drove them both to the floor, below the lip of the windowsill, and out of sight of any further shot.

All of that within a second. Then another patron noticed the hole in the window and began to scream. Underneath the wail, Richard looked down into the eyes of an undamaged Penelope Hume and saw not fear but a rising red anger. "DeGroot, Mr. Alpert," she said to him, her voice quivering but otherwise reasoned. In the distance, sirens began to approach. "Gerald and Karen DeGroot. Ann Arbor, Michigan."

. . .

Later:

_"You have… one… missed call. Press one to listen to voicemail, seven to delete."_

*bleep*

_"Mrs. Hume?"_ The voice was strained, confused. It gave her none of the fear she felt the last time she heard it. She looked up, around at the near-empty business as Richard continued to talk to the police. They were leaving her alone at the moment, having taken her statement no less than six times thus far. _"I have been asked to call, but not given a reason why. I appear to have missed you, despite Hugo's insistence on timing. My apologies. As it seems important to Hugo, I ask the courtesy of a return call at your leisure. Thank you."_

*click, beep*

_"You have… no… unheard messages."_ Penelope flipped the phone shut, her knuckles suddenly white as her hand clenched around the phone's slender, plastic form. Then she charged into the restaurant bathroom to vomit in a mess of released stress, shock, and something that was either surprise or horror.


	13. Moral Migraine

13.

_Moral Migraine – The New Adoption – Not a Promise We Want Him To Keep – The Orchid Flowers – Metaphysics, Because The Island Is Like That_

Ben kept careful watch on Hurley out of the corner of his eye as he stirred another mug of oolong tea. Kyra's empty mug sat by the sink, forgotten as the informant herself had slipped out to prepare for her coming departure. Now the little home was filled with the quiet sounds of Ben's activity in the kitchen and the mutters of Hurley as he rested on Ben's low-seated burgundy couch, an arm slung across his eyes.

Hurley claimed he had a major headache, which had been obvious enough from the expression on his face when he had charged in earlier. Recalling it, Ben's gaze flickered to the slender Nokia that now rested at the far end of the counter, pushed away as if it might bite. It was not Penelope Hume that had called back a little while ago, but Richard, explaining in tones of surprise what had occurred in Los Angeles. Feeling some of the same shock that Penelope had felt – though he would never know it – Ben had thanked Richard for contacting him and then set the phone down with numb fingers. Hurley didn't ask about the phone call.

_He didn't need to._ The corner of Ben's lip twitched in thought. _This place changes us, each of us in some way. For good or ill. What has it done to him?_ He tilted his head slightly at another groan from the couch.

"Dude, this is like an epic migraine. I think I'm gonna hurl."

Ben kept his tone low and comforting. "It's a hardwood floor and I have a mop. It might shock you, but I am moderately accustomed to sickness. Young children have very sensitive tummies." He shoved away the thought of a sweetly smiling little girl and dosed the tea with a touch of honey. A moment later and he was crouched next to Hurley, offering the sweet-smelling mug.

"Whassat?"

"Tea, Hugo. Oolong. It has a little honey and I brewed it with a touch of ginger. It will help your stomach."

"It's dirty water, dude." He sounded hesitant.

"So's that atrocious soda you drink. I can make a case for the worth of this. Sit up, please." The image of little Alex rose again, and he pushed it away again after a moment's contemplative thought. In a way, Hugo was now his latest ward. A soft voice at the back of his mind murmured that _this time, we will do better_ and then drifted away, leaving him with a sense of discomfort at that aspect of his role. He glanced down at his reflection in the mug then up as Hurley shifted into a sitting position. Hurley was giving him yet another odd look as he took the mug offered. "It's nothing, Hugo. I was thinking of Alex."

"'Kay." Hurley fiddled with the mug, then took a careful sip. He made a face, but then continued to work at the liquid. "You said this'd make me feel better, right?"

_Like a boy on bitter cough syrup._ "Yes, Hugo. I believe so. Is your headache the only thing bothering you?"

It was Hurley's turn to drop his gaze into his mug. "Did I do the right thing today?"

Ben arched an eyebrow. "You saved Mrs. Hume's life. I would be hard pressed to call that a wrong."

"Yeah, but… I used you to do it and what if I shouldn't have poked in at all? I mean, yeah, Des and Penny are our friends and all and I want to help everyone, but it's… I mean, I kinda pushed things around doing it."

Ben looked at him for a long moment before the light dawned on him. He almost laughed. "Hugo. You're _not_ Jacob. You will never _be_ Jacob."

"You can't promise me that, dude! People change." Hurley's face tensed and then dropped into a lonely little frown. "And I didn't even really understand it while I was doing it. It's like a piece of me knew what was going to happen and I just reacted and what if that piece isn't me?"

Ben coughed out an odd, bemused noise that was still not quite a laugh. "You're not possessed. By Jacob or the spirit of the island or whatever it is you fear. It's just you in there. I'm certain of it. You reached out and helped someone because you could and because you care for your friends on their own merits, not what you believe those merits should be or become."

"But what if I do become like him in a while? Decades, or something?"

"I would measure a metamorphosis like that in centuries, Hugo."

"Yeah, but, what if? What if I weird out and start just manipulating people like crazy because I think I should?" Hurley was looking at him with earnest concern.

Ben shook his head and took the half full mug away from Hurley, setting it on the coffee table. He then leaned forward and looked into Hurley's eyes with wry openness. "Then, Hugo, if it makes you feel better and I am still present, I'll stab you to death, too. Would that help?"

Hurley looked back at him for a long moment and then leaned back, heaving a nervous, embarrassed laugh. "Dude, I should not find that funny." Another great rumble through the belly. "Because this time you're probably not joking."

Ben sighed and leaned back again. "No, I am this time, as well. I doubt I have it in me for another great treachery of that magnitude, Hugo. Nor could I possibly believe that you, of all people, would deserve it." He stood up, taking the mug with him back into the kitchen.

"Then what am I? What am I gonna be?"

Ben turned his head to glance back over his shoulder. "Just you, Hugo. Always you."

. . .

Like the change of seasons, almost every man-made aspect of the island had been altered in the short time since the protectorship changed hands. Cabins were torn down and remade, entirely new, old memories swept away for fresh ones. The docks were rebuilt; the airstrip properly updated for its visitors, and many of the old Dharma stations had been at last fully dismantled and left to decay in the wilderness. Save one – deep in rich smelling jungle, the old greenhouse still stood, cared for by the residents and home to a floral display of colors of all kind. In the corner of it rested a shiny new elevator, dedicated to carrying its guests below to the secure and thoroughly updated Orchid research offices.

The old station was separated into several parts; some used for mineral testing, some for simpler historical research (now smelling of must and paper and the soft perfume of the archaeologist, Renee), and the biological instruments and scopes left in an ascetically kept corner lab by Dr. Ellis. He whiled away most days examining personnel files, plant samples, soil samples, even the water itself for clues about what Mr. Reyes and Mr. Linus referred to as the 'special properties' of the island. Neither had clarified the phrase to him, explaining that they wanted his fresh and unbiased opinion. Ellis, thus far, had no full theory he wanted to put a name to.

As a biological and human immunity researcher, he crosschecked environmental possibilities while paying careful attention to the health history of those local files he accessed. In interests of extra privacy, each file went unnamed (although in many cases he could figure out what file meant what resident) and he abided by his personal medical oath to not discuss particulars with anyone else. Under the letter of his contract to the current job, he may not have been required to abide by HIPAA, but he was going to anyway. May as well; much of it was strange and would probably get laughed out of serious journals.

He could find no trace of _why_ , but in all cases – save two, and each was curious in its own right – residents of the island found themselves gifted with increased recovery from ills that would have taken far longer on the mainland. No connection, save location. No hints in the environment save an increase in the background electromagnetic readings and a slightly stronger mineral signature in the water. Nothing very unusual; trace magnetic elements, extreme purity of the water itself, high oxygen.

Each day he came down to the lab, puttering with instruments, checking and rechecking readings. He grunted to himself, wordless noises of thought without regard to his surroundings, looking up only occasionally as Renee (she would laugh at any attempt to call her Dr. Kircher) passed by. It was his new rhythm, and he found his own sort of comfort in it. Also, she was a nice view. He'd been entertaining the idea of asking her to dinner, although his taut nerves would likely never allow it.

It was an early evening, and far above and far closer to the beach, Hurley was nursing his headache and his moral dilemma. Meanwhile, below, Dr. Ellis passed between the two folders that had caught his interest, dark-skinned brow knitted under darker hair. He shook his head now and again, finding no correlation. No idea of why these two were different, only that they were.

"Something being a pain in the ass?"

The voice startled him out of his thoughts and he jerked his head up to see the archaeologist leaning over a high counter towards him. She grinned, looking rueful. "Sorry about startling you like that. I've got a stone sample from the foot getting crunched through the system, thought I'd wander around for something to do."

Dr. Ellis put the folders down and tilted his head at her. "Anything odd there?"

She shrugged. "Nothing worth pointing a finger at and screaming 'Holy shit!' Trying to figure out where they got all that rock to carve the silly thing; it would go towards telling me either how this place was first colonized, if it was colonized again after an initial arrival by early Mesopotamians, or just confuse me further. Probably that last one. You look like you're in the same boat." She jutted the chin at the folders.

He hesitated, then sighed. No harm in vagueness. "My expert opinion at this time is that this place is weird. Immunity is way up. Recovery rate for all sickness or physical distress is up. Pregnancy, curiously, is low." He looked up at Renee's furrowed brow. "I have multiple case histories on the topic. Until recently, pregnancy was almost always a fatal or near fatal event. Now, I've got normal background radiation and a whole lot of unusual electromagnetism, plus something else crazy-"

She cut in. "Does that 'something else crazy' include a bump in some surface radiation?"

He laughed a little. "Yeah. Like a nuke got popped here at some point, but it's not enough to still be causing these sorts of fetal and maternal fatalities."

"It was a nuke. Big guy blurted something about it. Back in the late seventies. Doesn't match the soil record, though. Lot of energy went totally nowhere."

He blinked at her. "This is getting all very Star Trek."

She gave a rough little chuckle. "You're telling me. So what's up with those two?" She flicked a finger towards the files.

"Two separate cases of slower than normal recovery." Another hesitation. He licked his lips and considered. It would be good to think out loud, if he were careful.

Renee gave him a bright smile. "If it's medical privacy on your mind, that's cool. But if it's just weird, I'm all ears."

"Between the two of us. And don't press me for personal details. Both files are anonymous." He waited for her nod before continuing. "One is an older file; spinal tumor that got within a hair of the shady side of inoperable. That in itself is weird – I have a testimony about recovered _brain cancer_ , of all things. That cancer moved in off the island. This was an on-island case where no other cancers develop. According to the history, it was operated on, tumor fully removed, but then the patient continued to heal relatively normally. Off of here, that'd be wonderful. Here, it's an anomaly. Based on the pattern of recovery, the patient should have been rock climbing just a few days later." He looked up at Renee. "So what's up with that? Island houdou suddenly decided to not work?"

"Hunh." A flash of a smile. "Useful answer, I know. The other?"

He bit his lip. He had to be careful with this one. "More current. I have someone with a prion disease who, according to these checkups, is stabilizing. They are not, however, in full recovery. Just stable. A miracle anywhere else, but again…"

"Prion disease?"

"It's a kind of broken protein. It transmits to you, the body doesn't know what to do with it, and so it builds up and leaves more broken protein in its wake. All prion diseases affect the brain tissue, so far as we know. All of them are thus far incurable and fatal. You'll have heard of one – bovine spongiform encephalopathy."

"Mad cow." She scratched her chin.

" _Lord_ , I hate that term." A touch of the Alabama ghetto boy came out in the drawling invocation to God. "But yes. I've never specialized in prion immunity, but I have a colleague who does and it's maddening work."

"So someone around here has-"

"No. There's some other infections or diseases that crop up. This one is very specific. Genetic. And… that's all I'm at liberty to discuss." _Fatal familial insomnia._ Saying it would identify the victim immediately. By the look of the Indian gentleman's file, he was in the second stage of the disease. The third would be the one to eventually kill him – and yet, meanwhile, he was stable. He was not, however, cured. An anomaly. The brain cancer victim had tested full recovery at least twice.

Renee straightened up to stretch and recross her arms. She appeared to think for a long while, then leaned down towards him again. "Maybe – I'm just throwing shit out there, I do this with my girl when we're brainstorming – maybe it's not all up to the island. You're not finding anything because there's not something to find."

He leaned back in his chair, looking at her. "How do you mean?"

"Okay, you and I are kind of working on the same line; that this whole place is seriously effed up. But it's not just the place, is it? The people have as much to do with it, don't they? I mean, I've got people here going back thousands of years and they stayed for something. Everyone points to them believing in something with the kind of fervent dedication that gives you holy men with funny hats."

"I'm Catholic."

"So you know what I'm talking about." She slid right by the topic, complete with moving her hands across the countertop in a swishing motion.

Ellis picked up one of the folders and tapped it against the bottom of his chin. "So it's faith?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Another pause. "My girl – she's another digger. Northern Africa, though. She's been trying to graph the actual spread of the Carthage Empire and we have it in our heads that it may have connected with remnants of both Akkad and the Indus and I'm fucking diverting again." She cleared her throat. "Her hobby is going to these new age fairs, because every time we're out doing a talk the rainbow kids start showing up and selling geodes and tin ankhs and she loves that crazy stuff."

"Your daughter, then?"

Renee paused, mouth open and ready to continue on her monologue, then stopped and blinked at him a moment. "Ah, no."

Ellis froze, recognizing the magnitude of his blunder. "Oh." He covered it with a friendly smile and a touch of disappointment followed by another, almost humiliating sense of relief. So much for dinner. "Sorry to interrupt."

She took the apology with an unruffled grin. "No problem. So we were at this one a couple years back, and it's the usual crap. Coverless von Daniken books marked up an extra five bucks, plastic skull rings, and lots of the Disinformation people hanging around. And she sees this guy. Big as shit, bald as sin, and he just cuts through that crowd like a shark in an aquarium. Nice thing is, for all that, not a single threatening sense about him. She – Annelle, I should mention – recognizes the guy. Grant, or something. Long story getting short, turns out the guy is big into this… flake alert… ritual movement called 'chaos magic.' Whatever, but he talks about some stuff that makes some sense."

He looked at her with a bland expression.

"Yeah, I know. I'm totally busting out the idea of a logical story after the words chaos magic. I know. He had this idea of consensus reality. That in history, and even now, collective human belief and absolute strength of the will can change what we know as reality. What was once is no longer so – because people wanted it that way. Only in this place, on this isolated island, that consensus comes from a smaller pool. Maybe that consensus is sometimes in the hands of the people that have taken care of this place. And maybe sometimes it's in someone's own hands."

She paused. "I promise I don't do drugs."

Dr. Ellis leaned back after an abrupt chuckle, absorbing the concept. She was right, it was just an idea thrown at a wall, but there was something resonant to it. He couldn't adopt it entirely; it wasn't something he could touch with the scientific method, but if he had to go so far as to accept the unexplainable, it was a theory. He was not, however, that far yet. Still. _They weren't cured because on some level they – or someone else - felt they're not ready to be cured._ "Metaphysically interesting."

"And about as useful as a piece of cowshit at a craft fair. I know." Another grin. "See, this is why I should just stay in my little hole when I get bored. I ramble."

"No, it's fine. Plenty to think about."

"Happy to provide. Meanwhile, I think my rock test is done. I tell you what, if it came from a quarry in Arizona, they're going to have to lock me in a little padded room." She popped him the thumbs up. "You'll get your shit figured out. You look like the type to keep at it till it's over."

He grinned, surprised at the compliment. "Here's hoping."

She flapped a wave at him as she vanished. After she was out of sight, Albert Ellis leaned back and stared up at a featureless ceiling, losing himself in thought about the dying man aboveground, always lying awake in his little cabin.


	14. I'm On A Boat

14.

_What Married People Discuss – Revenge – I'm On A Boat – How to Break In and Influence People – A Plague of Information_

_Los Angeles – Our Mutual Friend_

Standing in the soft light of the cabin, Desmond Hume jingled the little mobile above his son's bed. The toddler grinned up at him, sleepily, reaching up an arm now and again to paw reflexively at the squat forms of Piglet, Tigger, and Eeyore. Desmond smiled back, caught in the child's innocent joy found in the small and simple. The smile faded just a little at the shadow of his wife in the low doorway, a baby blanket folded along her arms acting as security more for herself than for the dozy child. Her face was tense and thoughtful; it had been since the afternoon she came back, rattled, to tell her tale to a far more rattled Desmond.

 _Someone tried to kill my Penny._ It twisted his insides in sickness and ineffective anger. He believed her; the honest request for help from Richard Alpert, the murder at Hanso, the miraculous timing of a phone call from the island, her conviction that it had been an act from someone beyond any of them. _Paik, or whoever is behind them. Damn them._ He flicked up his gaze to catch her looking at him. She smiled back, still a touch pale, the forehead drawn in heavy contemplation. She mouthed words to him – _I need to talk to you –_ and he nodded. He reached down to plant a soft kiss on the forehead of now-dreaming Charlie, and followed her out the corridor and to the little kitchen.

. . .

"I made a mistake, Des. I want to explain it, and I want your opinion." Penelope broke her own silence after long minutes busying herself with brewing coffee for them both. "I have bits of a solution, but I don't dare press against it without your support. We don't play that anymore. We work as a team, and I won't go any further forward without you. But I need you to hear me out, think, and not react until you've done so."

Desmond sat himself at the table, tongue caught in a light bite between his lips before nodding. "All right, love. You've got my full attention. This is about this whole thing with Alpert, right?"

"Yes and no and now hush." She softened the words with a brush of a kiss against his temple as she set a mug in front of him. She took a seat by his side, cupping her own mug in both hands. "I shouldn't have sold my father's stocks. I shouldn't have given in to that pressure."

She held up a hand as Desmond opened his mouth to interject. "I know. How could I have known what would happen? What if I hadn't sold to that Mr. Hicks and these Paik fools had come to me instead? Would I have been treated like Hicks? Those questions don't matter, I think. The outcome would come to this point eventually; my father and his company, for all its faults and cruelties, is being used in a larger game. What I lost, Des, what I sold, was a proper defense or even an assault back." She knitted her brow and dropped her gaze to her coffee, taking a long sip.

"You owe no one anything in this fight, Pen."

"Perhaps I do." She looked up again. "You and I, in living on this boat, on pulling away from all of them, all of the past – it doesn't change that it happened. You were used by my father and _that place._ I am my father's daughter. We can't change that. But we could change what that means." She dropped her head again. "My father did horrible things. Things that were beyond redemption. Is it so wrong to think I might have taken what he did and regrow something else from that ash? That it was weak of me to try and set it aside, to forget?"

Desmond sat for a while, watching his wife. "It can't be wrong to believe something good can come from something bad, Pen. I found you in it, didn't I? There's no weakness in any of that."

That brought her face up to his with a bright smile, eyes caught with the barest gleam of dampness. "I can't take back what I sold. But my father's friends know me, and we're not poorly off, Desmond. I want to go there, my dear. I want to go to my old home, and build my own little alliance, buy a little stock back through them, and piss off Paik's little watchdogs because they made me _mad,_ Des. Not enough stock to take it back. Enough to meddle. Enough for pain. They tried to hurt me, and I'm not up for giving more forgiveness right now. I'm sold out."

Desmond didn't interrupt and didn't inquire. He had his suspicions, disagreed with the probable outcome – throwing the little bastard into the drink had been one of the finest moments of the last few years, leaving forgiveness off the table as far as he was concerned - but let it alone for the moment. He had given his wife that much trust and more.

"I want to give some hurt back. Right in their pocketbooks, and maybe in the process help Mr. Alpert flush out what rotten mess is hiding behind those skirts. They wanted to use my death to strike at the island? I want to see them _hit the wall_." There was steel behind her soft voice. It was a tone Desmond was long familiar with; no retreat and no surrender. It was the resolute will of Charles Widmore, distilled and purified and given to a woman of wider awareness and morality. Desmond had lost more arguments to it than he cared to admit to before a few drinks and lied about after more. He pitied her opponents in the most casual of circumstances, and in this?

 _Sweet Penny, those men are fucked._ He was frightened for her, frightened for what could happen to all of them, their son, their friends. He could be just as frightened of her. The best he could do would be all he could offer – his support.

He gave her his best smile, swallowed the rest. "I've heard you out, love, and believe it or not, I've been thinking as you spoke. I've but one question for you."

"Yes?"

"When do you want to cast off?"

She rose and came to hug him, that girlish bell-laugh ringing in his ears for the first time in days.

. . .

_London, later_

Her name was no longer Kyra, her voice no longer that adopted Soho street or her native broad Midwestern dialect. In the mirror was a plain-faced woman, long, dingy blond hair tied back in a tight braid. The makeup seemed minimal, hiding truth underneath layers of lie. Liquid foundation over a faint freckling of acne pockmarks, a cheap touch of lipstick, some mascara. In her ears was a pair of bland metal earrings, those ubiquitous small silver spheres. She wore a brown sweater underneath a bulky dress jacket, a long plaited skirt in another neutral tone. The woman in the mirror was forgettable, basic, even a little sad looking to the shallow and unobservant. An expertly forged but incomplete Paik ID was clipped to the jacket – _Moira Jameson,_ it said, though reversed in the unblinking glass _–_ and she felt a sense of unease and unreality reading this new name. She was less concerned with the nonfunctional strip along the ID's back.

A basic background check would find a real Moira, with a real resume of tech support and business administration. She could parrot facts from it. In her mind was a stream of backstory, a father, a brother, an aunt in Scotland. On her lips, the faintest touch of brogue. She reached out and touched the mirror – touched Moira – and fought the urge to vomit in a sudden rush of anxiety.

 _Who's Kyra?_ wailed a distant voice. _Fuck you, get a grip,_ came another, almost identical to the first but harsher.

"See, this shit is why I quit this job to begin with," that ghost of Kyra whispered to Moira's reflection. "I knew this was a mistake." She clenched her fists and tried to keep a grip on the core of her identity, tried to forget that the worst of the day's work was yet to come.

She grabbed her brown leather satchel and flung herself out the door for a day's work at Paik Bioscience.

. . .

Getting in the front door was easy. The richly landscaped lobby of Paik Bioscience was manned by two bored-looking guards. They looked at 'Moira,' disregarded her as the hired tech-wonk peon she was, and paid no attention as she slipped into the elevator close behind the last person to actually swipe their genuine ID tag. Why should they? She wasn't the only one to do so; a hurried and late executive barreled his way into the elevator, causing only a brief glance from security. It was the only real hurdle she had, surpassed within seconds. Now the building was open to her, just so long as she could keep her own act together.

She kept her head down and her demeanor mousy and subservient, getting off the elevator on one of the lower floors. Signs helpfully guided her towards IT, its coding guardians barely sparing her visiting figure the honor of a blink. Moira stopped at an empty desk, set a brown manila folder on it – its contents loaded with meaningless TPS reports and system check spreadsheets – and then rooted around for a pen. The man at the next desk watched her activity and she caught his eye. "Franklin in?" she asked. Franklin was the senior sysadmin; the man with all the digital keys to the building's intranet. He also had a taste for Glenfiddich and European football. She knew the answer, but waited expectantly for the man's response.

"Naw, dumb son of a bitch called in sick." The man rolled his eyes. "Probably still drunk and hungover, if you ask me."

She snorted. He was right. "Of course. On the one day I need to talk to him. 'Kay, I'm going to go in and leave this for him. Will you tell him someone came by?"

"Aight." The man turned back to his computer, her existence probably already forgotten. She straightened up, taking the folder with her, then hooked around the corner into the admin's unlocked office.

. . .

There was a bathroom right by the tech floor elevator. Moira was gone, her job done. Armed with probable passcodes gleaned from last night's drunken conversation, she'd run a crack against Franklin's system and found herself with full access. She'd set up a buried e-mail path; copies of memos sent between the executive and scientific offices would get blind-forwarded to a new, blandly named account, which itself was automatically set to then connect to Google and its mail services – like idiots, there was a corporate intranet, but then there were services connected to the outer internet itself - and would then forward all those internal documents to a bin that she could check in on from anywhere in the world. It was likely that the intranet email would get found and shut down in a matter of days to weeks, but by that point, the damage would be done. Meanwhile, she also had the backdoor passwords to the CEO's own office computer. Now she just had to get to it.

She lifted her head from the sink. The braid was gone, leaving a high ponytail of softly waved hair. A touch of mousse and the dingy blond had a little bit of elegant shine to it. Silver spheres were gone in favor of tasteful crystal dangles that accented a slender neck. Rather than remove the illusion of bad skin, she'd covered everything further with a careful layer of powder foundation. The effect was that cool, almost waxy look of model perfection. A little extra eye makeup, and the brown sweater had been pulled away to reveal an expensively tailored white silk blouse. The skirt remained the same, but a set of heels and a little readjustment of the jacket transformed the look into extravagant corporate style.

She put her shoulders back and affected that air of casual know-everything competence. There was a new ID in place – Helena Galatas, an aristocratic name of Grecian Europe and a touch too close to her own mauled sense of identity, but there she was – and the nausea and sense of drowning grew stronger as she approached the elevator that would take her up to the corporation's executive heights.

. . .

William Flood's office would have been sumptuous, if it hadn't been for the eyesore of several dozen bloated and smelling boxes along the back wall. 'Helena' took pictures of them with a small camera, making sure to capture the different Dharma logos and lot numbers. The boxes along the top were open, and she examined their contents while being careful to leave everything exactly as she found it. More high quality photos were snapped as she worked quickly – let the guys on the island see what Flood was getting into. Behind her, the computer hummed softly, copying all of its digital guts to a series of small, portable USB drives. It took time, but she had time – Flood's itinerary indicated a two hour business lunch. As those things went, it would probably be at least three, but she planned to be out within ninety minutes or less. The secretary had gone to lunch as well, leaving the sole hurdle if she came back as Helena/Kyra exited, but again, by that point, she would be done.

A soft ping came, indicating that she needed to swap out another drive. She did so, then let her curiosity get the better of her. She pulled open the Recent Documents folder, eyeing text files large and small, many headlined in impenetrable Korean – the kid was going to have something to do back at the ranch – and many that were not. She noted file authors; the obvious Paiks, additional Woos, Jeongs, and Shons. Flood himself ran a couple docs for himself, including a useless saved .pdf for a local restaurant. Western names. And then one Germanic name that caught her eye, a document that by its title indicated corporate marching orders.

_Mittelwerk._

Kyra had built her reputation as an information broker on her skills, her talent for noting corporate security holes, and a very honed and trusted instinct. The name tickled that instinct, some sublimated recognition or just flat out hunch. While the wholesale copying continued unabated, she dug into Flood's document files proper, finding more files marked by that name. She examined file titles, unwilling to open them and place them into recent history where her intrusion would be noticed. Files like _Chenchey, Genomex1, Chiral,_ and one, ominously named _Septicemic._

There was one other file mixed in with the rest, a .gif image with no author but titled 'Mittelwerk.' Using the preview feature, she could safely load it, and did so.

. . .

_**The Copenhagen Post, September 28** _ _**th** _ _**, 2006** _

**Police and Interpol engaged in search for high-profile outlaw scientist**

The Hanso Foundation and its returning president, Alvar Hanso, have issued a brief statement regarding the expulsion of top scientist and former Foundation president, Dr. Thomas Werner Mittelwerk.

" _It is with great shame and regret that we must take responsibility for one of our own. Dr. Mittelwerk served our foundation with a fervor and loyalty that had gone unsurpassed, but is now forever soiled by these allegations. While the truth of these matters can only be known when the authorities apprehend our fallen son, we put forward now a new promise to you and to all mankind – that each sin that sets us back_ _must_ _be_ _eclipsed by a stronger will to do good. We redouble our efforts to serve you. Namaste."_

Police have not come forward with any further information about the disappearance of Dr. Mittelwerk, but have repeated their increasing reward for any information leading to an arrest. Last week, unidentified forces within Interpol have reached out to Denmark's law enforcement to widen the net. Reports that a man matching Dr. Mittelwerk's description had been found boarding a Shenzhen Airlines flight bound for Jakarta remain unconfirmed.

Dr. Mittelwerk is being sought for hostile corporate practices and allegations of scientific wrongdoing, including rumors of viral and bacterial design work. Called 'The New Mad Scientist' by the UK's Daily Mail, Mittelwerk is confirmed to have studied within the United States at CalTech, in the fields of biology and genetics.

. . .

The article was accompanied by a picture of a severe, hatchet-faced man in a white lab coat. She looked at it for a long while, marking the face in her mind. Her only outward response to the discovery was a hissed " _Oh, fuck,"_ as the last file was backed up to her drives.

Having found more than she could have dreamt for, and understanding on some instinctual level that she had discovered some crucial fact for her new bosses on the island, Kyra began to reassert the tattered core of her central identity and packed up her gear to get out of the building.

With a sense of anticlimax, Kyra encountered no problems as she left quickly through the front door.


	15. Mad Scientists!

15.

_In Which Delays Are Apologized For in Chapter Titles – Ann Arbor – Mad Scientists! - History's Mysteries – Constant Vigilance! - Porcelain Gods_

_Ann Arbor, Michigan_

The DeGroots lived a private life, hiding in plain sight just blocks away from the University of Michigan, where they had made their career in the days before and during the Dharma Initiative. The little brick and ivy home was in the name of the university itself, though a little extra legwork from Penelope Hume (Richard hadn't asked) had shown that the property taxes and other minutiae were paid by Hanso. It seemed they still taught on occasion; were consulted now and then by aspiring scientists, and were well known by the local grocers.

Richard had been introduced to Baudelaire, the white German Shepherd, immediately on his arrival, the dog panting happily at him in lieu of being asked to bite. It was a relief; the beautiful purebred had a set of choppers on him that invited awe and proper canine respect. Alpert also suspected that not all the ivy on the home was mild kudzu; some of the bushes looked closer to poison ivy instead. Both of these factors (and almost certainly others) led to an almost offhanded tale of a recent attempted break-in. Neither DeGroot seemed concerned by the incident, although to be fair, Gerald DeGroot had examined Richard with equal parts recognition and mild interest. It didn't seem to be his way to grow easily concerned.

He had been allowed in after Gerald disappeared into the depths of the house to make a phone call – not to the police, thankfully, although Richard hadn't been told any other detail. Karen gave him coffee while Gerald stated what had been plain – that Paik sent men to buy a little bundle of stock property invested in Widmore, as had been given to the DeGroots when Widmore forced that long ago alliance with Hanso. That the break in had been tried less than three days later was underlined with a shrug and a lopsided smile under grey beard.

"Better than them have tried to harass us, Mr. Alpert. We're not interested in confrontation, but Karen has a firm belief in a good defense. Mmm." Another shrug.

"What do you think they wanted?" Richard watched Gerald's face as he glanced over to his wife.

"Mm. Paik? Hmm. A good question. I've wondered about that. We never had anything to do with Paik in the past. Strictly unrelated Widmore business. Paik's interest is relatively recent and quite sudden. Therefore, I wonder if it is, indeed, Paik."

"That's the assumption of-" Richard coughed a little, unsure of his words. Ben's bitter, distant tone still echoed in his mind. "An acquaintance of mine. Specifically, he called Paik a 'paper tiger.'"

"A wise judgment. I am not a tactician, Mr. Alpert. Mm. These matters aren't of usual interest to me, except to examine the variables, the derived outcomes, the potentiality. I don't like money; it brings emotion to mathematics and statistics where there shouldn't be such. Yet this isn't about money for you, or for your acquaintances."

"It's about the past." Richard murmured the words, feeling the accuracy of them, even as they were unfounded in anything other than hunch.

"Always. Always. Life is grounded on the cobbles of the past. The future is the child of that road. That is of interest to me. And Karen, of course. Forgive her quietness, I find she is at her most wise when she chooses to speak most carefully." He smiled over Richard's shoulder. "Ah, yes."

Richard sensed movement behind him; the woman drawing back further into the little home. He heard rustling.

"You have aged, Mr. Alpert. I'm quite surprised."

The statement startled him out of his attempt to figure out what was going on behind him. "What?"

"I never saw the island, not myself. Once we heard of the, ah, oh, forgive me if I use a foolish term, 'indigenous' population, the Initiative felt it wiser to keep the heads of the project out of the territory. But we saw the pictures. They were attached to the reports, when our people negotiated with you. In all of them, you were the same."

"I'm not offended." He wasn't. "The island's undergone a few changes in the last couple of years. I'm no longer involved."

"Yet here you are."

He felt briefly foolish at leaving an obvious opening. "Not directly, then. Loose ends for myself. And friends."

"Yes. Yes, yes. Unfinished business." Karen appeared at Gerald's side, leaving a set of thick manila folders on the table in front of him. He seemed no longer interested in Richard's few strands of grey hair. "We know all about unfinished business, don't we, my dear?"

She gave her husband a wry smile, then turned her face to Alpert. "Using a corporation as a public face to hide agendas is, unfortunately, something we're familiar with." She tapped the folders. "Do you know what happened to Alvar Hanso over the last twenty years?"

"I'm aware there was a major shakeup fairly recently. Mr. Hanso resumed direct control of his Foundation."

"Dr. Thomas Mittelwerk used the Foundation and our Initiative to further his own agenda. Unfortunately, everyone realized this far too late." She pushed a hand through golden brown hair shot through with silver. "Mittelwerk was Alvar's shining star, a brilliant protege who appeared to believe in the Foundation's goals with absolute zeal. Cancer research made grand leaps under his watch, we began dozens of programs involved in longevity research, experimental physics, fringe science... the seventies were the start of a grand era. When he overthrew Alvar less than ten years ago, it was shocking. I'm not sure Alvar has yet recovered from that betrayal."

Her tone turned bitter as she spoke. Gerald laid a gentle hand on her hip. She paused, then began again. "He was fascinated by the Initiative's goals. When we discovered the island, he worked alongside us day by day as we prepared for arrival. Designed the Stations. Some of them bore his unique touch. We didn't know how unique." She looked away.

Gerald spoke up. "The Orchid bore his mark; an elegant place of research surrounded by controlled life. We were astonished by his preliminary designs and thought little of the additions he made to other locations. And we were not told of his special project, his own brainchild of a station." He flipped open the top folder, shuffled through it, then moved to the second. He nodded to himself, then passed a stapled bundle to Alpert. "The Tempest. I'm afraid you know that one quite well."

_The lair of the floating dragon we called The Purge._ Richard swallowed, looking through the design packet for the chemical facility. It was an old photocopy, the handscrawled notes faded against the transferred blues and white. He flipped the pages, saw sketches and renderings, and felt more than a little ill. "It." He inhaled. "That was not our best moment." He glanced up at the DeGroots, who watched him inscrutably. "I advised against it, though my hands are not clean in the execution."

"Who ordered it? I ask for curiosity. I can no longer rage."

Richard licked his lips, dropped his eyes to the paper again. It was not being a good year for personal history. He felt like his life was becoming one big confessional booth. "Charles Widmore did." He looked up to see Gerald nodding as if resigned.

"I was afraid it was the other somehow. Thomas. I have no doubt he had all the records. He had Dr. Chang debriefed fully when he was able. It must have delighted him to see his foul little child in action." Gerald's tone grew sad. "The Initiative was meant to further the study and the protection of life." He pushed the rest of the documents across the table to Alpert.

"Instead, Thomas took everything we did and disappeared into the dark to further the study and the _sale_ of death." He raised his bearded chin. "The papers there are a fragment of the Initiative's work, and some of what we have on Dr. Mittlewerk himself. We can't let you leave the premises with them, but you may have my study for as long as you like to read them. Return if you wish. It's been authorized." Richard didn't break in to ask by whom. He had a guess. "I am certain Thomas is your current curse. It may be useful to you to read these things." A little smile. "Mm. We have but one little request to make. This is personal."

"If I can." History's weight still roiled in his stomach. The DeGroots were being far more gentle with the topics of their connected past than they could have been, uninterested in real confrontation. It helped, though didn't cure all ills. "I don't answer to anyone in this, it just comes down to if I know anything."

"Mm." Another little smile. Karen spoke up. "When we were working on the Lamp Post, to make sure that we could keep contact and track the island, we had the help of a wonderful young man who found us through the University here. He was a brilliant physicist; grasped formulae that are still cutting edge now. But he did go to the island, and he vanished long before the chemical release. Do you know what happened to him? His name was-"

"Faraday." The weight in his stomach grew. "Daniel Faraday. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. He died at our camp in a terrible accident. He was shot, the shooter believing he was acting as a threat to me personally. It shouldn't have happened." _But it had to, it seems._

Her face fell. "Oh." She looked away. "The island bore all our hopes for bringing light to our future. Why did so much of it seem so dark?"

"I can't answer that for sure. Maybe it was our mistakes. The people who tried to take charge on the island. It's a new era now, though. Maybe it'll be better this time." He lidded his eyes, thinking of Hurley. "There's new people there. Some of them are very kind."

"I suppose we can hope. Gerald's study is through the doorway there, to your left. The lamps run by touch. Please take your time. I'll bring you more coffee, if you like."

. . .

Richard sat outside a restaurant called Zingerman's, having been recommended the place by the DeGroots in an attempt to put bread and meat on an unhappy stomach. The food had been delicious, and he made a mental note to return at a time when he was less distracted. The cellphone hummed in his hand, waiting for connection. It finally bleated at him.

_"Alpert."_ The tone, as usual, was curt and defied analyzation.

"Ben. I found some interesting information for you. About who's behind the pressure on Mittelos and the island."

_"Dr. Mittelwerk."_

Richard closed his eyes and swore under his breath. As usual, somehow Ben was several steps ahead. He continued anyway. "Yes. I found the DeGroots through a mutual friend of ours. They were approached by Paik as well but made a better guess who was behind it. Turns out they have a lot of reasons to suspect Mittelwerk. I got a look at the Initiative's files, his notes."

_"Now you're expanding on what I knew."_ Interest tinged the voice. " _I can confirm Mittelwerk is behind Paik's interest in us. He's brokered several arms trading and suspect research deals through Paik, although much of the data we have is still being unraveled. We know he came from Hanso, and that he left moles behind in the organization. Exeunt one poor Mr. Hicks at the hand of one such now-evolved mole. What is his connection to the island?"_

"Chemical and viral research, brainwashing, stress studies. Ben, the Tempest was his baby. He used the information from the Purge to later enhance the gas that was contained on our island." The nausea returned. "He's the one that had our people abducted and tested in Room 23, so he could study the effects. He got reports on everything; infertility, longevity. According to these notes, he had an immense file on me. He wanted to know everything about us, and how to use it, and how to break it." A note of desperation entered his voice. "Ben, according to the DeGroots, he thinks the island is his personal research station. He's got a god complex, control issues. I'll bet you anything he thinks Mittelos is screwing him out of something that he thinks he has the right to. He wants us."

_"You mean the island."_

"I mean _us,_ Ben. The island's done with me. He's not done with any of us, and as far as he's concerned, I'm still a part of it." He shook his head. "I've got all this information in my head, Ben. What he was going to do in Sri Lanka; what actually got him caught at Hanso..."

_"My own curiosity sickens me."_

"Illegal organ harvesting. That was the beginning of the end for him. He barely got away from the authorities. Hanso won't talk about it."

_"Can't say as I blame him."_ There was a long pause on the other end. _"Perhaps you're right. I can't even say that you've put yourself in this. Your involvement may well have come despite my own actions using you as bait. Hugo may have been right as well. Meanwhile, through you and others, we remain vulnerable. Where is Mrs. Hume?"_

"I don't know, the family cast off a few days ago." Ben made a sound on the other end of the line that would have been a curse on anyone else's lips. "I'll keep an ear out."

_"Please do. Contact anytime you need. I will be texting you a file. This, naturally, is a code. Using it will find you a set of safehouses if it becomes necessary. Be careful. We have now firmly established that they are willing to kill."_

"Yes."

_"Richard."_ Ben's tone became genuine, touched with concern. _"I emphasize caution. Hugo is fragile right now, and I don't have the adept and empathic touch of past advisors. The best I have is paternity's firm comfort. He is frightened by what he is, and any danger that I cannot help him avert may be disastrous to his state of mind. He overburdens himself with concerns of morality."_

"You're scared." Richard was startled by the sudden return of Ben's old trust.

" _If I may be completely frank, as we once were when I led and you advised, I am fucking terrified. We have issues now between us, you and I. But further contemplation reminds me that there is also much now that is common to us both. All stems from the same history. As an advisor speaking to an advisor, I think I'm better off with this honesty to you."_

"Then you're probably doing better than you think. Be as you are, do the best you can."

Another long silence. _"How did you put up with me near the end?"_

"I drank." He surprised himself with a wry laugh.

_"To everything there is a season, and the turn, and the return."_ A sigh. _"Speaking of, I think I've mislaid some of my whisky. Caution, Richard. And vigilance. I will call you as our current staff unravels more information, if you like."_

"Please." Ben hung up after a bemused noise, leaving Richard examining his little phone in contemplation.

. . .

In the cool darkness of her cabin's small bathroom, Kyra Glaukopis knelt against the toilet and heaved now and again, dried out but still sick. The empty bottle of Ben's lost Michael Collins whisky sat disregarded on a table in the living room, next to two scavenged bottles of Dharma rum. Eventually she fell asleep there, shoulder going numb as it pressed against the white porcelain. She dreamed of staring into mirrors that reflected back no describable face and whimpered now and again as her sleeping body shivered.


	16. The Hangover

16.

_Nosy Neighbor – Nice View - Board Meeting – I Think There's Something Wrong With That Guy – The Hangover – All About The AA_

_The Island_

It was three in the morning, though anyone up at such an hour knows that it's still the night before. The jungle dark thrummed softly; bug-song and night-creatures made their own kind of music and the shadows around the tiny village creaked companionably. It was safe; the lizard-brain in a human's mind somehow knew, could somehow sense the total lack of threat from their surroundings. Pure peace and silence from the homes on most nights. Usually someone was up late, but they would stay in doing whatever it was people did in the privacy of their homes.

It was a good hour for a little walk. The air was cool and just a touch damp, perfect for Krish's remaining physical ability. He liked to get out and pretend for a little while that everything was just fine. It beat thinking about the confused furrow on Dr. Ellis's brow, or the sideways glances from the locals. He still felt better than he had in what felt like years. That had to be worth something. So he took his walks and found a small bit of peace, since he still couldn't meditate and would never sleep.

Krish paused now and again as he ambled on a criss-crossing path through the village, listening to the night or watching the flicker of some device beyond a veiled window. He saw no one and no one called to him, which he liked. Most nights he would pause by someone's home and contemplate them – Tsuchi and his withdrawn behavior occasionally revealing the quick mind the kid had; the stolid doctor who kept himself under rigid control; the archaeologist. She was often on a phone call to the mainland, raunchy jokes singing out to her friends and family at late hours. Ben – that house was always dead silent, the windows drawn.

Finally, Kyra, who had been gone for several days on some errand. A dim light glimmered deep within the house, and it caught Krish's eye. He arched an eyebrow in some concern, recognizing it as a hall light that most of them switched on when they visited the bathroom. This one had been on for a while, at least half an hour or more since he had begun his nightly walk.

_Means nothing. She likes a nightlight,_ said the grouchier, keep-to-yourself portion of the inner chorus. _Or not._ _Didn't every other night before she took her trip._ This from the other side of the peanut gallery. _Not to mention, none of us have seen her since she got back. Reported in to Linus and went into her house, full stop. That's not concerning at all. Besides, it can't hurt to knock. If she's asleep, she won't hear you._

"And if something's wrong, she still won't hear me," Krish mumbled to himself. "Or I could stand here and talk to myself until morning and worry about schizophrenia in addition to all else." He looked up at a speckled black sky. "Hell."

He wandered over to her door, taking his time. He put his ear to it to listen and heard nothing. He listened a little longer, then reached up, curling his hand into a fist to knock. An idea seized him and went up for an internal debate before he dropped his hand to try the handle instead.

It opened at a gentle turn and he pushed it open, narrowing his eyes at the dark living room. He stared for a while, picking out details of an otherwise ordinary room until he caught the profiles of the empty bottles on the table. He tilted his head, recognizing the squat-shouldered profile of a whisky bottle and the taller, narrower svelteness of another pair. _Wine? Maybe rum or vodka._

_Or fruit juice, you nosy jackass. Shut the door and leave her alone._

Krish stood there for a moment, framed in indecision within the arch of the door, until the soft moan floated down the hall. That drove him to slap at the light switch as he charged further inside.

. . .

Krish laid Kyra's unconscious form on the couch, keeping her head elevated on a pillow. He was hesitant to invade her bedroom, going for this secondary option instead. The imprint of bathroom tile still left an absurd squared mark on her cheek and the chemical stink of alcohol was an almost physical presence. It wrinkled his nose as his muscles screamed obscenities at him for the exertion. He hadn't thought, only reacted when he saw her prone form on the cold floor. Now his body was reminding him of what it decreed to be a Bad Move. He sat down, heavily, on the chair next her.

_I should wake up the doctor. Or Ben. Or someone, in any case._ She groaned again in her sleep. He remembered what nightmares were like; distant, sluggish horrors that you couldn't run from. He considered trying to wake her up, but if moving her hadn't caused a stir, he wasn't sure what else he could try. There was also the issue of public embarrassment. She was drunk, not bleeding, and might be angered about the intrusion. _Maybe I should go_ , he thought to himself. He didn't budge from the chair. _I should absolutely go._ His inner voice didn't sound very convincing.

. . .

_Yeoksam-dong, Seoul_

Paik Heavy Industries stood proud among dozens of industrial and financial skyscrapers along either side of the Teheranno street, all forty-five floors of it glinting silver and blue in the dark. At its highest floors, the building still felt no noticeable sway (though it was there; clever architecture and construction made the building seem rock-secure. It was beloved by those whose fear of heights accepted this place and few others so high) and the bustle and noise of the street below became so distant it may as well have been on Mars.

To stand in its highest windows and look down granted an imperious feeling, and this is why Woo-Jung Paik, the CEO, allowed one window to be made more ornate than all others. This was the view of his secondary boardroom; a window that filled the far side of the room in lieu of almost any wall. It was bordered by luxurious velvet curtains embroidered with gold designs, and he kept his small collection of historic Jeulmun pottery bowls on pedestals along either side.

In truth, he used the boardroom but seldom; most meetings were conducted in a lesser room several floors below. He used the grand space for a few select private consultations instead, and as a place to look out and think. He thought a lot of late; his lost daughter, his unseen grandchild, his worthless – certainly dead - son in law. His thoughts often tinged his face with pale red rage, the color draining down and visible against the white collar of his Hugo Boss shirt. Always the white shirt. Even at home, he dressed no less formal. He was _Paik_ , the man and the corporation. Inseparable.

That night, he was watched by the man seated behind him at the far side of the room. The man observed him, head tilted slightly to the side, assessing him with the same interest and casual curiosity as he might a particularly amusing but ultimately boring species of _Blatella asahinai –_ or local cockroach. Some regional, morphological differences gave each roach enough diversity to be classified separately, but the result always came down the same. A roach is a roach.

Unlike Paik, however, Thomas Mittelwerk kept all his thoughts cleanly off his face. He sat, leaned back casually in the office chair with his hands clasped together in his lap. The table before him was bare; he needed no notes though he marked the phone that rested in the distant center. He also thought as he waited for Paik's eventual address, though his thoughts were of a clinical, almost mathematical stripe. He was more concerned about the viral replication rates of his latest little hobby.

The CEO broke the silence after the flash of some distant traffic helicopter cut through the light pollution that filled the horizon. "Do you know why I called this meeting between us?" The voice was mild, an obvious lie.

Internally, the man sighed. One sentence, and this had become fated to be interminably boring. "The progress on our little issues remains the same. It is being handled, and I am in control."

Paik turned to regard the German doctor. "By that, you mean there is no progress whatsoever."

"I cannot be rushed." Mittelwerk's long face was impassive. It was a statement of fact. He would not, could not be rushed in any regard.

"In fact, sir, I would argue there has been regress. The Widmore woman lives. You assured me that would be _handled_. Instead, she fills out a police report! Then vanishes!" Paik was barking, pretense gone. "Incompetence!"

"Hardly. I planned for either outcome. This is optimal." The tiniest of shrugs, the wave of a hand. He expected a call from London within hours. "I expect my staff to react and handle events within certain degrees of failure/victory based on stimuli I provide. Flood has not disappointed me within those guidelines. As for the rest, it progresses. We will both have what we want."

"Where is my granddaughter?" Paik's wants were simple but driven. Perfect.

The slightest arch of an eyebrow. "Safe. I am narrowing in on likely locations." He assessed the grunt he received as response – grudging acceptance. He had placed himself as the only potentially successful method for recovery, despite that the child mattered little to him.

Paik looked the doctor hard in the face, ignoring that he met only wall. "Very well. Nonetheless, I must insist: I need _progress_ on my grandchild's location within two weeks or I consult alternate methods." He strode for the door. "There is no negotiation on this point," he finished, then left, slamming the door behind him.

Dr. Mittelwerk waited for several minutes, then rose with a simple grace and reached for the phone. He called out, bypassing the tower switchboard, then waited for Flood to pick up. It rang five times, then clicked for connection. "The files." He had no interest in human courtesy with the man.

"I'm still assessing them, sir. I think we've got eighty-five percent of the blueprints back together, but there's a lot of signal to noise. The engineers say they may have to make a few guesses. How was your meeting?"

"Predictable. "

"The granddaughter. Always with the granddaughter. Sir, I've got a possible location in Seattle-"

"It's irrelevant." Mittelwerk cut off his pet CEO's offering tone. "Save that we have a formal timetable."

"Sir?"

"There is little to worry about; timetable is within my schedule. Continue. I assume acquisition of the property has been no issue."

"None at all, sir. We're moving the builders in tomorrow to start, the engineers will get to preliminary work by Wednesday."

"Complete your blueprints by Thursday. Minimize guesswork. On Saturday, I will be in London. Do not call during that time. Do not acknowledge me if you see me on site."

"Shall I arrange assistance, sir?"

"No. I will handle this myself." Optimal marginalization of failure. He banked on Flood's incompetence as a leader. It would not do to have him involved in the next phase. Not at all. "Continue to watch Alpert. Subdue if capable, it would be _nice_ to have a good look at him." The way he said 'nice' had absolutely nothing to do with the standard Oxford definitions of the word. Nonetheless, it was purely optional.

"Shall I do anything about the DeGroots?"

"Don't bother. I will be in contact," he said, and rang off.

Mittelwerk looked down at the phone for a long moment, clearing his thoughts and placing his mind in a blank state. He strode across the room and looked out on Paik's vaunted view, seeing predictable flora and fauna, predetermined paths and street rhythms, and watched distant planes launch over the horizon.

As he stared down at his private little animal kingdom, he slowly let his mind fill with numbers that resolved into probabilities and then biological certainties. He calculated viral replication rates, compared them to human breeding statistics, and sniffed slightly. He did not regard humanity as the same as a virus, but he did recognize what he believed were certain parallels with viral growth and evolution. He regarded both with the same paternal awe.

Cut the virus back, and what survives, thrives. He found that endlessly fascinating, particularly in comparison with such bottleneck human evolutionary events as the Black Plague and Toba. A vast span of diversity cut down to the barest effective population size. The diversity recovered, even flourished. Amazing. Amazing what man could do in the face of extinction. So diabolically hard to examine a control sample, particularly since his Sri Lankan observation had been denied him.

Oh well. There was always the alternate scenario. This time, he would be in place to watch personally. The perfect control site, with no annoying government meddling.

After all, the secret island was his. He believed that utterly.

. . .

"Oh god, what time is it?" Her voice was thick, a gloopy sound from a mouth that undoubtedly smelled like a spoiled brewery. Krish stayed out of range, watching her as she carefully sat up, hand to her forehead. "Is it morning?"

"Not quite yet. Going on five." She hadn't gotten with it enough to wonder why he was there.

"Wait. Island." She blinked, looked at him muzzily. "Why're you here?"

There it was. She recovered pretty fast. "Ah. I found you."

Another blink.

"On your bathroom floor."

"You _broke in?"_ Her voice, still thick, began to rise.

"It was unlocked!"

"Goddamn it! Twice in a year!"

"What?" It was his turn to start blinking a lot.

"You! Him! Linus! Gwah!" She pointed around randomly. "I'm getting a security alarm!"

It fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. "A delightful plan. Then you can set it off the next time you stagger in here drunk off your arse and wake up the whole place."

Her face pinched at him. "I am not a drunk."

"You _were_ drunk, that's undeniable. I have no opinion on the rest. I don't even know where you got the stuff, I've never even seen wine since we all got here." He flapped his hands. "Sweet fuck, I did not stay around to start an argument. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Delightful." She put her hand to her mouth. "I think I'm gonna barf again." She staggered upright and ran for it. A clunk of porcelain meant she apparently made it in time. Krish got up from the chair, rubbing his forehead. He went to pour a large glass of water, thrusting it at Kyra when she came back down the hall. "Thanks."

He had no idea if she meant the water, the couch, the not-waking-up-the-neighborhood thing or what. "You're welcome. Are you certain you're all right?"

She sipped the water and looked at him. "I hate that question." He tilted his head at her. "If I say yes, you know I'm lying. If I say no, I'm obligated to explain."

"You're not obligated to tell me anything. If you do want to talk about it... well, I've got all night." He glanced up at the ceiling. "If there's something I can do, that is also an option. Otherwise, since you're fine, I will happily get out of your hair if you like."

"I'm fine." It was terse. "I'm sorry, I'm fine. I just-"

"Am embarrassed. I've got it. Have a collapse at a bank meeting sometime, good times." He managed a smile for her. It seemed to help, she gave a weak one back. "I'll slink out of here, and in a few hours, there's nothing to say to anyone else. For now." That got him another look, this one less friendly. "You say you're not a drunk. Alright. I've got no choice but to take that at face value right now."

She kept looking at him.

"At the same time, I don't believe in enabling that sort of thing, or doing nothing about trouble. As I say, you're not obligated to tell me jack. _I_ will, however, feel obligated to push you to get help if I see something is going on. And I will see, Ms. Glaukopis. I am just _made_ of free time. All the time. At any hour." _You nosy jackass._ Feeling more confident that he was doing something right, he shoved aside the dour voice.

"Fine." The voice was grudging, holding back some mild insult about his attitude.

"Fine!" He chirped it back, certain that his cheery voice drilled right into her temple. _Cheap shot, Krish._ "Have a lovely. If you need anything, please let someone know."

He felt her eyes bore into his back as he left.


	17. Dead Air

17.

_Dead Air – The Lawyer-Client Relationship – Today's Buzzword: Closure – Accounting 101 – LOL Wikipedia – Dalek Jokes_

_London_

It felt like there was no air in Charles Widmore's office. Just an oppressive stillness and the sense of old ghosts staring and seeing everything. Penelope could barely breathe; the tiny intake she could manage going unnoticed by her companion. For that, she was thankful. She had shown her best poker face in the last week, re-introducing herself to old company friends and visiting Widmore sites as something other than the younger child she had been once. But the reality of her father's own space was something else entirely, a weight, an inheritance she had not expected. The lack of _him_ hammered home things she had not come to terms with on her own grounds. It was far harder than she expected.

Behind her, Charles's personal lawyer cleared his throat. Harriman was a small, rabbity man, prone to red blotches in the face for no reason and a nervous demeanor. She remembered him – Harriman had been one of her father's earliest picks for advice in his corporation, and a family friend as well. The round rabbit face wavered faintly in many old memories of birthday parties and holiday gatherings. "Most things have been unlocked and moved on accordance with his will. Just a few personal spaces remain. We, ah. Were unsure. I made the call to wait and see if you had a say."

"And here I am," she murmured. The paralysis broke slightly, and she moved across the room to touch careful fingers to the hardwood top of the expansive desk. It was real, refusing to disappear on her.

"Yes. Of course."

Penelope looked up at the lawyer, feeling the world slowly start to settle around her. It was just a room. The weight was all within her. Time to start gripping with it. "Did he say anything? In the..." She couldn't finish, abruptly angry with herself.

"In his last days." Harriman cleared his throat. "Not much. A great deal of bustle. I wasn't privy to much about his odd little fancies." He shrugged. "Then he took the submarine. More paperwork. Little of it unusual for us."

"Fancies?" She raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged again, looked wry. "He had that obsession of his. I don't know much about it, I dealt with it a little about a decade ago. Some... cargo cult in the Pacific or whatnot. I caught mentions of it. I didn't ask after it much."

She fought the urge to laugh. It rang in her mind instead, sardonic and knowing. "Oh yes, that." She rifled through the paperwork on the desk. Nothing important, just interoffice memos. "What happened with it a decade ago?"

Silence. She looked up at him. Harriman looked uncomfortable.

She took pity on him. "I know not everything my father did was above board, Mr. Harriman."

His face relaxed slightly. "I should mention that it qualifies under existing attorney-client privilege. At the same time, as the descendant and heir, I'm willing to talk about it with you. If that changes your mind."

Penelope thought about it. She felt she'd known the worst of him anyway. "It does not."

"Ah. I was, ah, privy to some discussion and involvement of an _issue_ between your father and some fellow still involved with this cargo cult. A Benjamin Linus."

The name still left a cold place in her stomach, forgiveness aside. "Go on."

"There was some rivalry on the topic. Mr. Linus was engaged in acts in Europe and elsewhere that distressed Mr. Widmore. He, ah, made a few calls. The stated purpose was to dissuade Mr. Linus from his antics." He sounded very specific in his words. Penelope was used to such things in her family.

"What was the implied purpose?"

Another pause. The lawyer sounded uncomfortable. "I felt quite sure Mr. Widmore would have been pleased with the man's death." He shifted his weight. "After the closure of that scenario, I made it a habit to stay out of that matter of business."

"I see. I understand." She kept her voice even. She imagined long years of her father and Linus counting coup on each other, locked in some private war. There was the faintest glimmer of something alien in her feelings. Was it sympathy for her father's opponent? She shoved it away. "Best to leave that alone then."

"Yes. Thank you." It was Harriman's turn to inhale deeply. "Well. Would you like a little time to examine your father's things here in privacy?"

"Please." She lifted her head up to watch him go. "And thank you.

. . .

The office gave up little about the relationship Widmore Corporation had with Paik or even Hanso. That didn't surprise her much; she gradually admitted to herself that she had wanted to take a look around for more personal reasons.

Closure, she thought, was a fancy concept. A nice idea, a psychological band aid that fixed everything. In reality, she felt that some things simply left a gap, a ragged hole, and the best one could hope for was to get the ship to float. It wasn't closure she sought, rummaging around her father's old things. It was understanding. She held little hope of that either.

. . .

One set of three drawers in the grand desk was locked, within another locked cabinet. Through some foresight, she'd taken the keys from Harriman much earlier. With more than a little hesitation, Penelope pulled them all open.

The cabinet itself held a small cache of private reserve MacCutcheon whiskey. She eyed with with a little ruefulness, considering whether to take a bottle or two with her. The drawers above, though, were nearly empty. The bottommost drawer held the only object, a small, heavy wooden rectangle. She put her hand on it, then pulled it away again. It was a picture frame; her fingers recognized the shape immediately. She reached down again, picked it up, and looked for a long while at the image under the glass.

It was a sweet portrait of a young girl, curly pigtails and a flower dress, smiling beatifically over the head of an oversized plush bear – a Steiff, by the eartag. The most wonderful bear in the world, she had thought at that age. She still had it, waiting in a box for little Charlie to be a bit bigger. Her breath caught at the image of herself, realizing that what her father wanted and cared for most, he hid away and crouched over, like a dragon.

MacCutcheon, which he had described once as the taste of a lost sea voyage, the words angry and full of loss. And the portrait of her.

Penelope burst into tears, the ragged hole of family feeling just that touch more ravaged.

. . .

When Harriman returned a little while later, her eyes were dry again with only the faintest touch of red. If he noticed, he said nothing. She was grateful to him for that. "I'm sorry, I'm a little early. Reception took a phone call for you."

"From whom?"

He passed her the note, scrawled on the memo pad. "A doctor from Paik. Dr..." He craned the head to interpret the note. "Dr. Werner. He asked to meet you Friday, uptown. It seems he has an interest in helping us find out why Paik's so interested in our files."

"Why ask for me, then?" Her instinct said to be cautious. There was no need to set herself up to be shot at again.

"Well, you've made yourself known the past week as being allied with us and it's gotten notice in Korea. Maybe this one wants to change sides, help us out." Harriman sounded unconcerned. It soothed her, but she remained on edge. "If you're not interested, I'll send someone else."

"No, I'll go." _I'll just be very careful._ She studied the note as the lawyer departed again.

Friday. Two days. She made a note to herself to be sure Des knew every detail of what she'd be up to. Just in case.

. . .

_The Island_

"All right, this is what I don't get. It makes no sense." Krish tapped the accounting sheets line by line with the blue pen he was using. "The Korean based accounts are just dumping money into Paik's Euro job here." He spread out the papers and pointed at what he meant. "See all the deposits here... and here... and there... and nothing else. It's like the Bioscience place is a black hole. It doesn't even qualify as a business, it's like watching a child pour flour into the sink. The money goes _nowhere._ "

"Explain further, please." Ben watched him with a tilted head, like an eagle analyzing prey. Krish thought nothing of it, it was just how the man looked when absorbing information.

Krish pulled the stacks of paper around in front of him, reorganizing. "Look. This -" he tapped the stack on the left. "Is the estimated operation expenses for Paik Bio." He tapped the middle. "This is their actual up to last month. It's very low for a science firm. A bit of payroll, but hardly anything else." He tapped the right. "This is what's being poured in. Look at the totals. If it wasn't for the letterhead, I'd swear you were asking me to analyze three different corporation books." He shrugged. "What's odder is what Tsuchi pointed out when we started – there is no active accounting office. Oh yeah, there's one on the books handling said payroll, but they're getting the left file. They're not handling the real money."

He leaned back and looked at Ben, then at Tsuchi. They were all seated on the floor around Krish's living room table, teacups and paper ascatter. A laptop sat open before the youngest man as he continued to translate various files. "Don't start me on the purchase orders. They're nonsensical. If I were given this mess at my old job, I'd go straight to the bobbies. None of this stands up against serious scrutiny."

"It's like they don't care." The voice was a quiet murmur.

Krish pointed a finger at Tsuchi, the speaker. "Exactly."

"What about the purchase orders?" Ben pushed away a teacup.

"I said don't start me." Krish gave a wry grin as Ben fixed him with a long, cool look. "All right. One question: What does a bioscience firm need with a couple thousand tons of high horsepower diesel?"

Any answer he might have received was interrupted by a knock at the door. Krish looked up and across the table. "It's open," he called. It would be easier for them to enter while he began the laborious process of standing up.

Ben glanced up, then over at Kyra as she entered. "Good evening, Ms. Glaukopis."

She gave Ben a noncommittal grunt as he dropped his gaze again, then jutted her chin at Krish, who was just approaching full upright. "Can I talk to you for a moment, please?"

"Certainly." He steadied himself by putting a hand on the side of his couch.

In front of him, with his back to Kyra, Tsuchi's forehead rose above the edge of the laptop screen, followed by the rest of his face. Krish looked down at the younger man, then found himself astonished. Tsuchi wriggled his eyebrows up at Krish, then grinned before dropping his head again. _He made a joke. A porny little joke._ Krish blinked. So much for video games not ever helping anyone. Perhaps he ought to get in on Hurley's gaming nights.

. . .

Kyra drew Krish outside the front door, closing it. "It's not a big thing if you don't have time, just something I was thinking about."

"All right?" He crossed his arms against the nighttime's surprisingly cool breeze.

"I was reading this Wikipedia article and-"

"Oh dear, here we go." He smirked down at her. She reddened slightly.

"Fuck you, okay? I don't typically go all Dr. Google here, I was just thinking about it and here I am doing _follow up research_. Yeah?"

He arched an eyebrow in assent. "Go on."

"So I have a problem." Kyra stuck a finger in his face as he opened his mouth, full of mischief. "You are full of snark lately. Fine, I start with the obvious. It's not a drinking problem. _It's not._ " She glowered up at him. "It's... look, it's like an identity thing and I was reading up on trying to help myself out."

"There's a lot of therapists in the world dying for a regular paycheck."

"I have trust issues, too. Shut up and listen."

"I'm honored. You must have decided to trust me if we're talking."

She kept glowering. "It's not about trusting you. It's about feeling like I'm paying someone else to listen to my problems and I hate the concept. For now. Okay? Maybe I'll get over it. First, this."

"Thrill me."

"You know about meditating right? Finding your center and all that."

Krish began to laugh, ending in a low wracking cough mixed with whooping. He put up a hand as she stepped towards him, concerned. "I'm fine." He grinned, sniffled a little. "I know all about meditation in the same way a Dalek knows staircases."

"What?" She looked completely nonplussed.

"Is this because I'm Indian? Woo, find the magic yellow person, he must know how to meditate."

She looked horrified. "No! I saw the yoga mats and you told me about the devas and stuff and I thought-"

He grinned again. "It's all right. Calm down. I can't meditate."

Her face fell with the immediacy of a child out of chocolates at Easter.

"I _do_ know how. I'm just... horribly out of practice. You know. Ah." He looked chagrined. "Weight of the doomed world and all that." Horror began to hit her face again. "Oh, stop that. If I can deal with it, so can you. Relax." He flapped a hand at her. He smirked. "Those who can't do, teach."

"You'll try?"

"What the hell. I have, as previously stated, all damned night. And I did offer help. Tomorrow morning, at dawn. Come here, wear comfy pants, don't give me any rubbish. I've never taught anything."

"Deal."

He raised a finger. "One question, and then I need to go back in. Completely unrelated." She cocked her head at him. "What do you do with a couple thousand tons of high end diesel fuel?"

She responded immediately. "You run a ship, like cargo or bulk carriers and the like. Who's got a ship?"

Krish looked at her for a long moment. "That is an excellent question."


	18. One Missed Call

18.

_Sail Away – Lunchtime Rendezvous – One Missed Call – Thought Process_

_Later - Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean – The Helgus Antonius_

The metal hull of the massive container vessel creaked and groaned as it drove relentlessly into deeper ocean. Within and without its vast grey interior, it crawled with human life as its human tenders watched over the ship, each dial and computer display attended to with professional care. Thomas Mittelwerk watched over them, silent and contemplative. He patrolled from the main deck to the holding rooms and to the specially designed quarantine labs with clockwork regularity, marking time until their destination came into view. He would pause in each place and sniff a little, as if testing the air for impurities, before moving on to the next location in his designated path. His staff knew better than to address him on these rounds, remaining fixed on whatever it was they were doing.

The man's circuit took precisely one hour and sixteen minutes. Penelope Hume had plenty of time to calculate it; her eyes narrowing and thoughts quickening each time the footsteps clicked into range. Each time, she sat still on the narrow bed, waiting to see if this would be the time the door would rattle open. Knowing that she wouldn't lunge for it anyway, it was too great a risk. Knowing that she still wanted to tear someone's face off for all their offenses.

Beside her, fussing quietly and confused by Mommy's silence and tension, sat Charlie.

. . .

_Earlier – Friday in London_

Penelope was struck by immediate wariness upon meeting the man who called himself Dr. Werner at a small cafe in London's North Side. He was polite; friendly and self-effacing in an easy attempt to be non-threatening. He spoke of Paik's business dealings with an unburdened simplicity, telling her things she already knew and dancing at the edges of what she did not. His tall, thin form moved with efficient grace and he insisted on a short, open walk to a nearby park. All perfectly safe and clearly visible. No threat. He was perfect.

He reminded her, on some animal level, of Benjamin Linus, and the wariness kept firm. Desmond was scarce minutes away with Charlie in tow and she could summon them with a single press of a button on her phone, which she kept ready in her pocket. In addition, she'd sent a message to Richard Alpert just before arriving at the cafe. He hadn't picked up, but he traditionally was good about getting his messages.

The sun was high and bright, shining through leaves in the little park. She caught herself looking up at them with simple enjoyment as they walked past other small packs of people. The doctor never did. "So, how long were you with Paik?"

"Mmm. Some five years or so. I was working with another institution before that; a related company." Something about his tone tickled her spine and her fingers brushed the little phone. "I didn't like the direction they were taking. It seems to be a theme for my career." The words were mournful.

She kept her tone cheerful. "Well, I hope your next takes a better turn."

"After all this? I do think so." He turned and flashed her a smile, stopping his pace in a broad piece of field. Other walkers moved around them, giving space. "I have a few plans. Ah, this is a good place to finish our talk. There isn't much more to say."

Penelope took a hunch, pressed the button anyway. The phone began to connect, silently, waiting for Desmond to pick up. "Well, what you've shared has been valuable. I'm very concerned with Paik's activity towards my father's company and this does all go to my concerns. Better to be educated though, of course."

The doctor smiled. "Of course. I'm happy to have helped. I've been quite worried it wouldn't do any good."

The phone sat silent. No one was picking up. Color began to rise up the back of her neck. Should she follow her hunch and run?

"Oh, my ride is arriving. Do you see them?" He gestured towards a sleek black car that pulled to a curb, some hundred yards away. "Right on time. I did enjoy our talk, Mrs. Hume. I'm sorry it was under such circumstances. Please don't run."

She froze, hand still in her pocket. She fixed her eyes on the narrow face, still blandly pleasant, now utterly unreadable. On reflex, on a whim and a hope, she pressed redial instead. She could only hope the phone would pick something up.

"Doctor, what is the meaning of this?" She kept her voice firm. "I hope you don't have something untoward in mind."

"There is no need for rude conduct. You and I will be entering that vehicle, very calmly and quietly. I'm afraid I have some need of you."

She flicked her eyes toward the car, and saw within it a short little figure with tousled hair.

. . .

_Ann Arbor, Michigan_

_"Charlie!"_ The voice called out, wild and frightened from the phone, and Richard nearly dropped it. _"Why do you have him? What are you doing?"_

The next voice was far more muffled, and yet familiar. Alpert had just returned to his hotel room after a second visit to the DeGroots. This one had given him time to view footage of Thomas Mittelwerk. The man's timbre was unmistakable. _"As I say, we have some need of you. Come, we disembark shortly. Come, now, and no harm done."_

Rustling sounds, a clatter, and then, after a mutter of anger, the bleating sound of a cut off connection. Richard gripped the phone in his hand, knuckles white. There was a message waiting for him as well, missed in the chaos of the DeGroots' rustlings, and he relaxed his grip enough to bring it up. He absorbed the information – Penelope's brief notice of her cafe meeting and Desmond's location in relation – then began to combine and assess it. A tangential fragment of his mind spared some admiration for Mrs. Hume's preparedness. Under the circumstances, she'd done as much as she could.

Now his mind worked quickly. It was an old talent of advisory need. Put aside emotion temporarily to process a proper reaction. A woman and her child were in peril. A fact, and it angered him deeply. To perform any assistance, he must react with less emotion and proper planning. Also a fact. He closed his eyes and thought.

_Mittelwerk. Island link. Claims need._

_Disembark – word implies ship, not car, not air – depart, take off, drive, leave, he chose disembark._

_Mother and child. Passive situation. Controls mother. Controls other? (Ben?)_

_Desmond unmentioned. Charlie with mother. Desmond in trouble. All locations, England._

_Desmond – ported at St. Katharine Dock. Close to cafe location. Safety unknown._

_Ship. Imminent situation. Quicker action for better outcome._

He opened his eyes and prepared to make two phone calls. One to the DeGroots, to see if they knew anything about Mittelwerk in regards to a ship, and second, to arrange the most immediate flight from Detroit to Europe. Then he could let anger return.

Then he would have to make the third phone call. To warn Ben and Hurley. To let them know what was coming.


	19. Guilt Complex

19.

_I Think He's Pissed – Guilt Complex – Village People – Wacky Kids – Rescue Op In Progress_

_London, Paik Bioscience_

William Flood kept the phone pressed to his ear as he watched the main computer process and display routing information matched with probabilities. Arcane and theoretical physics combined within the program's processes, all cobbled together from the remnants of the Lamp Post's burned corpse. He had finished Mittelwerk's project with barely time to spare. "Yes. Keep on your current course. At your current speed, arrival at destination is on time and with no problems. Yes, I'll keep watching on our end. Good luck." He rang off and glanced at the small security monitor he'd had installed. On the other end of it, locked within the bowels of the building, a very angry-looking dark-haired Scotsman stared back. "Think he'd like a drink?" he asked the security guard at his side.

"No, sir."

"Me, either. Think it would help to tell him that his wife and kid are fine?"

"No, sir."

"Yeah, me either."

. . .

_The Island_

Ben sat in the office of his home, head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. Centered in front of him on his desk was his phone, silent at last, a little monolith to mark the failure he felt. He sat perfectly still, working to process what he was going to tell Hugo. Trying to come up with a plan that would not only smooth over what fears the people on the island would have, but in his dreams go back a year or more to make what was coming not happen at all. He had been too slow. The next engagement was coming anyway. His push to learn his opponent, to not go on the offensive, had failed by costing them valuable time.

_I should have attacked._

_It wasn't what Hugo wanted._

The two thoughts warred behind his closed eyes.

"They're coming."

His head jerked up while his eyes flew open. Hurley stood framed in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed at him and hands clasped together. Ben opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He closed it again and his face pinched together.

"Dude. It's not your fault." He looked serene, a contrast to the worry he'd shown over the phone call to Penelope, just a scant couple of weeks earlier. "You did everything I asked, the best I could."

"They _are_ coming, Hugo. I can't stop them." _Again._ He buried the echo.

"It's okay. It'll work out. I promise."

Ben shook his head. "Hugo, Mittelwerk is a madman. I can't even contemplate what he might decide to do when he gets here. Gas? Viral? Experimentation? Host a weenie roast? _I cannot assess him._ His idea of scientific method is completely off the map. He is coming on a ship. He has hostages. We have only barely begun to grasp what that may mean."

"It doesn't matter, dude. It's going to be fine. We got some stuff to get done before they get here, though. And it's gonna sound scary to some people, and people are gonna think the worst, but I promise you, we got this. It's cool. But I gotta ask you to promise me something before we go out there and call everyone in for a talk."

Ben lifted his shoulders in a slight, surrendering shrug. "I went in for the penny, Hugo. Might as well go for the whole pound."

"Don't hurt anyone, Ben. It's not your fight. You don't have to hurt anyone this time. Not for anything. And especially don't do it for me, if you think I'm in danger. Okay?" Hugo's voice was pleading. "Promise?"

"I." He shook his head. "That is a phenomenally hard thing to ask, Hugo. I don't appreciate battle. I don't enjoy it; I don't seek it out. But I will defend, and I will fight for what I have put myself to. Which is this island, and thusly, you. You are asking me to possibly go counter to everything I have ever done in my life. I would rather fight for it."

"Yeah, how'd that work out for you last time?"

Ben flinched and looked away.

Hurley slumped a little, looking apologetic. "Sorry. That was kinda a rough thing to say. I know it's hard. Promise me anyway."

"Fine." Ben's voice was curt before he reined it in. "I promise." He looked up to see Hurley watching him carefully. He puffed an exasperated sigh. "I _really really_ promise. Do I need a pinky swear as well, or will that settle it?"

A grin. "I am so ready to make you pinky swear just to say I've seen it."

Ben glowered up at the thick figure.

"Okay, we're good. C'mon, village meeting. Let's go ring the bell."

. . .

It was early morning, and so Krish and Kyra were among the first to arrive, standing together near the edges of the communal picnic and meeting space that Hurley liked to use. Kyra was in her favorite sweat pants (now meant for meditation and associated minor yoga), arms crossed and drowsy looking, while Krish flicked his gaze from person to person – the original villagers chatting together, Tsuchi flapping them a wave from the far side, Rose and Bernard huddled close with Hurley and Ben. The archaeologist and the doctor were later arrivals; they went to work very early and it was still a bit of a hike from the Orchid.

"Whattya think is going on?" Kyra yawned as she spoke, the sound drawling out the words.

"The word 'meditation' is not French for 'nap.'" He responded absently, trying to pick out tone and mood from the motions of the little island leadership conclave. He regarded Rose and Bernard as important to the island's daily life as Hurley himself; floating in at random intervals to help with picnics or to suggest where to spread the gardening fields. They were good people. He particularly liked Rose, who came by now and again to talk lazily about lazy things with him. It was relaxing to chat with her, a form of mental rest, and he suspected she knew it and visited without pity. Very good people. Now Rose looked grumpy, gestured sharply now and again at Hugo, with her brow puckered in concern. "Nothing good. No panic, but they're on about something."

"Meee di taaay shyon." She chuckled. "Could be French, if you mucked with the syllables enough.

"You fail etymology. Latin."

"Regardless." She flapped a hand. "I'll get back to you when I have to sneak into an Oxford language facility."

"And may all that is divine help us if that's to be done." She gave him one of those sharp looks that she excelled at. He ignored it. "I think everyone's here."

. . .

"Morning, guys. Not the best start to a day, and I don't want anyone to worry, but we do have a situation coming up." Hurley spread his hands and looked at each section of the picnic field in turn. "Now, I'm gonna let Ben go over the details because he's the word guy, but we got people coming towards us, and it's not a really good thing."

A vague murmur began to rise from the crowd.

"Trust me, you guys. Taking care of everyone and keeping you all safe is like my biggest thing here. If this place isn't safe, I don't know what could be. That's my job. That's what I'm here to do. Cuz I love all of you, and this place is awesome now. I want people to be happy, and getting us through this next patch of crap is going to go towards that." He paused. "And by the way, I am crap at public speaking, so, let me just shut up and pass it over."

Ben stepped forward. "The history of the island is long and complex, as many of you know. In recent times, caretaking of this island has gone through a rapid set of hands. One of these, a man named Charles Widmore, went on to a new life beyond the island, but with a goal to return here. I am in no position anymore to discuss his motivations, but he left a tangle of matters behind him, and now some of that is coming home.

"During Widmore's tenure, you may be aware that we faced a certain influx of outsiders known as the Dharma Initiative-"

Hurley nudged in close and mumbled something into Ben's ear. Ben closed his eyes, inhaled, and nodded.

"I've been asked to cut down the verbiage a little. Let me _sum up._ A man named Thomas Mittelwerk has had previous doings with the island and is on his way to resume his goals. These goals are not in ours – much less anyone's – best interest. He is on board a large cargo vessel whose ultimate design is not known to us yet. He has hostages with him, friends of ours from days past."

Another murmur, this one more concerned.

"The situation is under control and will continue to be under control. The impending arrival of this man and this vessel are a fact. We cannot alter his course here. Therefore we are making plans to handle things after that fact. To that end, we inform you that when they approach, we intend to have all on this island moved to safety until matters are handled. We have some time to arrival. Each of you will be informed clearly of where you will be heading by the leaders of that group. I will be available for any and all questions you have regarding this situation. I will be remaining here among you for the time being, and then I will be found in my office. Please, do not panic, although to ask you not to worry would be futile. We are but human, but do please have some faith in us. Thank you." Ben bowed his head slightly.

The murmur rose, on the edge of frantic. Rose cut through the crowd, stopping by people here and there as she approached Kyra and Krish. "Hello, there."

Krish jutted his chin towards Ben. "What do you think of all this?"

"I believe him." Rose's tone was firm. "He and I have had tense dealings before, as all of us had, but truth's gotten easier to read from him." She tilted her head. "You never did get the story on all that, did you, Krish?"

He shook his head, as the words "rat bastard" were murmured beside him. He glanced down at Kyra, who picked idly at her sweat pants.

Rose chuckled. "As she says. But the past is past, and I do believe in new chances, particularly when vouched for by good hearts. And Hurley has the best of hearts. So I come over to let you know, I'm leading the first group. That includes all of you that he's hired, that sweet young kid and all. We'll be going in to someplace very safe, that he's trusted me to lead you to. It's very important to him that, you being fresh to here, have the best protection. So when you hear that village bell come up three times, you look for me right by here in the picnic area if you're close, or catch onto the group of us right up on that big field-" she pointed to an inland spread that they knew well; tales of impromptu golf games and other hijinks marked its history. "And I'll get us there. You have to be with us, though. It's a strange spot to find if you're not looking for it right."

Kyra arched an eyebrow. "This place is weird in general, that sounds even weirder."

"Well, Miss Kircher's been there once to peek, so you can ask her about it. She'll get a little time for another look while we're there, so that ought to make her happier about all this. It's a very pretty place, but there'll be a few rules to being there." Rose smiled.

Krish spoke up. "Where will the other groups be going?"

"There's an inland cave for a few people, and a larger group will be going to the temple. Very defensible if it comes to that, and Hurley swears it won't. Better to be safe, just in case. My Bernard will be taking people there. Now then, you all may as well get some breakfast. They tell me we won't have to move till tomorrow earliest. Plenty of time to get on with life." She reached out and patted both their arms, giving Krish's a little squeeze in place of a hug. "You go on now, take it easy."

. . .

Krish watched her leave. "I love that lady."

Kyra gave him a look. "Hi, can I remind you that we're heading for Defcon 2?"

"My entire life is at Defcon 1, I could collapse at any moment. What's the worry?" He shrugged. "Hurley says it'll be fine, it'll be fine." Tsuchi wandered towards them. "Hey. You all right with this?"

"Mm." A quick nod from the young man. "Doctor looks worried. He's following Ben around, lots of questions. He took some of the files from me, the things about the doctor, the things that that Alpert guy sent. I don't think he likes the idea of this Mittelwerk man."

Kyra shrugged. "Well, it's not like the whole mad scientist motif goes against every professional thread in Ellis's body."

Tsuchi blinked at her. "It does."

"Yeah, kid. That's the joke."

"Oh. English can be dumb sometimes." He shrugged, muttered something in Japanese. Kyra and Krish had no argument for that. "Okay. I'm going back to my work. Hurley says we're still gaming tonight." He grinned. "Yian Kut-Ku is going down." He wandered off again.

"Did any of that make sense to you?" He glanced down to Kyra.

"Was it supposed to?"

. . .

_London_

_Our Mutual Friend_ rested listlessly in the water at the St. Katharine Docks. Richard watched it for a long time and saw no one coming or going. He wanted to search it anyway, to see if there were any clues to what had happened. He had a guess, a strong and educated assumption, but he wanted to back it before he made any plans.

He waited another hour to be sure, then slunk towards the small vessel in the dark, examining the deck of it carefully before letting himself belowdecks. Outside little Charlie's room, there was the barest set of struggle signs. Within, a few knocked over books, blankets tugged... no blood. No extreme damage. The fight had been done very carefully, with emphasis on not hurting anyone. That was useful for the short term. It meant continued value in life. What could not be guessed would be how long that value would last. Once Mittelwerk got what he wanted from the island, that value might drop sharply. He pursed his lips and looked the place over again. Shoe scuffs. Marks of walls being gripped. Nothing more. If he were Sherlock, he might be able to piece more facts. He settled for his assumptions being unbattled.

Now came the harder part. If he was right, and Paik Bioscience held Desmond, how to access the prisoner and thus move on towards more help for his friends? He had few allies at the moment, the rest were locked away behind the veil of an island on high alert.

He emerged from the boat and looked up at the nighttime sky. It was clear, marked with only a few clouds. A bit of beauty hovering over an increasingly dangerous situation. There was no clear answer, no easily grasped plan. He blanked his mind, then relaxed, tried to see if anything struck him out of the box. Some angle he hadn't considered.

He opened his eyes. A tingle of useful cliché. _The enemy of my enemy._

Richard disappeared into the night to figure out how to place a call to Copenhagen, Denmark.


	20. Prison Break

20.

_Indulgent Cameo – Serving the Warrant – Prison Break – Not Quite Kosher – Fast Car_

_London_

Richard Alpert snuck a glance now and again at the man seated next to him inside the long, black sedan. He was pale; a shade of near-marble agelessness and inscrutability Richard had never seen before. Pale blond hair, pale blue eyes, and a dead black suit completed the look. He looked like an undertaker, which would have made far more sense than his actual apparent role.

The man – Richard knew him only as 'Agent' – was introduced to him at the police station as representing INTERPOL. Richard had struggled with finding a tactful way to call bullshit on that. INTERPOL was a liaison agency that never went into the field itself. It worked with police networks around the world in extreme cases of inter-country crime, such as terrorism or fled fugitives. In the end, he didn't have to.

_"I am strictly a field liaison in certain... special matters,"_ the man had explained in a rich, old-fashioned Southern accent. _"They permit me a few quirks in exchange for my expertise, which is much the same as the last agency I associated with. Until my departure. Meanwhile, I assure you that London's finest are the point guard in this officially, while I am present by request of the Hanso Foundation to give you a certain amount of assistance."_ All right, then. Richard went with it, off guard and slightly puzzled.

Now the vehicle they were in approached the Paik Bioscience facility; four police vehicles and a wagon bringing up the rear. Sirens were off, with a thin paper copy of the bioterrorism warrant resting on the agent's knee. It was not the only warrant available. In the man's hand was a police radio.

The lot of the building was only lightly filled; many away on lunch at the chosen hour of arrival. The agent's head tilted slightly, noting the fine Benz that sat in the CEO's parking spot. He nodded, very slightly, and slid out of the sedan as it came to a stop, beckoning Richard to follow.

Two clean-suited detectives flanked the agent, then pulled ahead, firmer copies of the full suite of warrants in hand as they swept into the lobby. A handful of employees stopped to stare, unsure of what to do. Behind Richard's group, another team of men hustled into the building and down a hallway on some direct mission. Richard was left with no clues; the agent idled in the middle of the room, flicking a look of distaste at the lobby's decoration. "Cheap," he murmured.

The two detectives held a quick conference with the startled woman manning the lobby counter, then nodded back to the agent and headed towards a hallway marked with the sign for a stairwell.

"Shouldn't they take the elevator if they're trying to grab Flood before he runs?"

"Mm. No." A light smirk. "That's only in the poorer action films. In truth, were he to give any semblance of innocence, he would have called down to inform us he was on his way to protest this intrusion. Rather, Mr. Alpert, he is presently fumbling with his computer, attempting to activate a hard wipe of its contents."

The radio crackled in his hand. _"Going."_

An electric whine could be heard in the distance. A second later, the lobby went dark, followed by the activation of the emergency lights. Distantly, fire alarms meant to chirp their activity in a power outage began their work.

"Which is how you stop that."

Richard looked at the man, growing unnerved. "What the hell was your last job?"

"Interesting."

The agent gestured towards the stairwell hallway when the lights came back on a few minutes later. "If you'll follow me, we'll visit the security room one level down to begin our search for your friend. I do love the internet, incidentally. A little work, and I do mean _little_ , and blueprints for everything are right in your hands." He sounded nostalgic. "I remember having to bribe someone at the various public works offices."

. . .

The agent led them both exactly to the security room without a single detour, swinging the door open. Two men sat inside of it, swiveling around to regard the intruders. The panel of camera views flickered beyond them, most of them showing the standard views of cafeterias and hallways. A handful of them were off. Some of the panel looked newer than the rest.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I note some of your cameras are inactive. May I know what they should show?"

Long silence. One man spoke up. "They're not working."

"Fascinating; an answer to the question I didn't ask. Could I please ask you to go upstairs and discuss your duties with the London police?" The agent smiled, wide and toothily. An albino shark. They began to leave, hesitant. One of them glanced back to the console. "Wonderful, thank you. Oh, wait. Do hold just a moment, one of you."

Richard stepped past the agent, whose hand was firmly placed on the arm of the guard that spoke. "We had one of these at _my_ last job." He glanced down at the panel, looking for the switches for one of the newer cameras. "Odd, looks like this one's set to route the view to another display as well." He shrugged, then activated it. It showed the image of a familiar, extremely crabby looking man. He turned around to look at the agent and the guard. "So where's the room?"

The agent looked down into the face of the guard. "Please do answer the question as asked." He smiled again. The guard recoiled, then mumbled an answer. "Wonderful. Upstairs with you." The agent beckoned to Richard. "Down another floor, then."

. . .

The door to Desmond's makeshift cell was certainly locked when they arrived. The agent fiddled with it a moment, and the door opened anyway under his hands. The door swung inward, and the two men were framed in the doorway.

Within, Desmond stood ready, plastic chair in hand. "You!" he blurted at Richard. Richard instinctively ducked back behind the door. "What in bloody hell is going on?"

The agent was silent. He seemed to stare at nothing, his eyes going either through or past the prisoner. Richard shook his head. "Sometimes, I don't even know."

"Where's Penny? And my son?" The voice shook with rage.

"That I do know. Desmond, they're being taken to the island as coin for their passage." Desmond half lunged. Richard put up a hand. "They're okay. Mittelwerk knows that their safety is what's going to get him there. There is no possible way Hurley will allow them to be hurt."

"Hurley's not the only one in charge!" The words were spat at him. The implication of Ben was clear.

Richard licked his lips and shook his head. "Yes, he is."

"You're damned sure of that?" The knuckles clenched around the chair were white.

_Am I?_ He wasn't at all sure, but it was the only safe answer. "Yes." He put all his sincerity into it, and a prayer that he was telling the truth.

Desmond put the chair down, his face still in a morphing rictus of emotion. "Fine, then. What's with this chap? Do I press charges now or what?"

The agent's eyes focused sharply on the Scotsman. "Above, they hold warrants for an international fugitive, allegations of bioterrorism, weapons smuggling, and a little more than that. There is nothing about taking hostages. Nothing about a prisoner. Nothing about... any other topic under discussion at this moment." He inclined his head politely. "I am perfectly willing to assist you in placing a complaint about your circumstances, but I do mention that the process is a long, drawn out one. Many hours of debriefing, taped interviews, lineups, suchlike. I am under the impression you have... other places you'd like to be."

The radio crackled again. _"Bringing Flood down."_

"Ah, yes." The agent pressed to talk. "Please allow me a brief moment with him on the lobby floor, in one of those little side offices. As a courtesy."

_"Yessir. We'll have him for you."_

The agent turned back to Richard and Desmond. "About that complaint?"

"Pass. You, Alpert." Desmond pointed into Richard's chest.

"Hanso's willing to put us on a ship. We can personally go make sure we get your wife and son back. It's all arranged, I've been on a phone constantly for the last several hours."

"Fine."

The agent interjected. "I was informed there's a small piece of information that you yet need before you depart. Shall we?" He jutted a thumb upstairs.

. . .

Bill Flood's face was drawn tight, cast in a shade of sickly pale marred by a flush along his ears. Two detectives gave the trio a brief nod and closed the door behind them, leaving them alone with the ersatz biotech CEO. Flood's gaze glimmered between the three. "I have nothing to say."

"All right." The agent shrugged. "Mr. Alpert, if you'll come with me for a moment, I'd like to contact Hanso. I'm sure we can leave Mr. Hume here with absolutely no problems _whatsoever_."

Desmond's face perked up while Flood's fell further. "You can't do that!"

The agent went to the door and raised a hand to knock for the two detectives to let them out. He seemed to not have heard.

"Wait! You piece of shit, he'll fucking attack me!"

"And why would the gentleman do that?" came the drawl.

"I- This isn't _legal!"_ came the wail. "I'll sue if he so much as touches me!"

The agent turned around. "As you should. I advise you however that a legal suit against myself or a private individual has the tendency to become a very messy, very _public_ affair these days. Information leaks. Lives get ruined, irreparable in the aftermath." Another shrug. "But it is most certainly your right to do so."

"This is not fair!"

"No, it isn't. Once in a grand while, the argument is that it might be just."

Richard mumbled under his breath. "You're starting to remind me of someone I know."

"What's that?" The agent turned his head slightly.

"I said your professional ethics stink."

"Yes. They do. It's a very bad habit, but I have been quite unsuccessful in breaking it." He snapped his fingers at Flood. "This is all quite drawn out. They need information. You can provide it. Do so, and all you have to worry about is this sad little company matter of which you're not even the top creature. That's a very viable position for you. Call this a touch of songbird practice." He nodded to Alpert.

"When did Mittelwerk leave, what was his heading, and where are your projections for following?"

Flood hesitated for another minute, then rattled off the information.

. . .

Desmond and Richard left the building together, a pair of car keys in hand to take them to the port where Hanso's people were preparing to cast off. Before dropping heavily into the passenger seat, Desmond gave Richard a long, wry look. "Y'know, I wish I coulda hit the son of a bitch anyway."

"If we get to the island fast enough, maybe we can still find you someone to hit."

"Maybe so, brother. Maybe so. What's the speed limit 'round here?"

"I don't care." Richard started the car and peeled out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cameo from Agent Pendergast here, but not by name and not in the right job. Sort of like Detective Munch showing up on Sesame Street.


	21. Morning Bell

21.

_Morning Bell – Missed the Bus – Dig It – Not Covered By Your HMO – Plug In_

_The Island_

The warning bell began to ring just before nine am the morning after the gathering. The huge cargo ship was not yet visible on the distant horizon, but their systems knew it was closing in fast. Rose, Bernard, and Hurley's voices carried over milling groups and forced a sense of calm instead of panic. They divided up easily and began to march out of the little barracks village and into the jungle to their designated places of safety. Roll call was carried out on arrival as slower members of the community joined the groups midway or even close to their destinations. It was as orderly as possible, with certain kinks.

"Oh shit, where's Doc Ellis?" It was Kyra who blurted it out. Tsuchi, standing next to her, clambered up onto a set of bending branches next to the gleaming stream of water that marked what Rose called The Heart. He looked from person to person, eyes narrowing, then looked down at both her and Krish. Renee Kircher had taken her pack the second Rose gave her the nod and dropped into the strange cavern to take another archaeological survey. Tsuchi shook his head.

"Oh shit." It was redundant but understandable. Krish flailed a hand in the air to get Rose's attention. She came over and listened to Kyra's brief explanation.

"Oh, dear." Rose shook her head. "There's still time. We can hope he's simply late and he'll catch up. I'll be stepping away here and there to look for stragglers." She patted Kyra. "I'm sure it's fine."

Kyra didn't look convinced. "Can you holler down to Renee at least? I think she came from the Orchid, too. Maybe he said something to her."

Rose nodded. "I'll do that."

. . .

Renee was torn out of her thoughts by the shout from above. She was fiddling with an old-fashioned oil lantern – electrical ones had a tendency to quit in the cavern – and nearly dropped it. She swore under her breath and raised her face up to the shadowy profile of Rose above. "I missed that, what?"

"Did you see Dr. Ellis this morning?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he was deep in some sort of sequencing thing. Working on some stuff the kid gave him. Said he'd follow when he was done." She paused. "He make it?"

"Not yet."

_Fuck._ "I'm an asshole, I should have said something to him. He looked pretty out of it. Guarantee you he's still there. Want me to come up and go get him?"

"No, dear. You're fine, do your thing. Just remember the rules."

"No touchee, no movee, and most especially, no unplugging."

"Yes ma'am. Have fun."

Renee copped a jaunty salute as Rose's profile vanished.

. . .

"He won't get here before they arrive." Kyra shook her head. "Have you seen him when he gets on one of his workaholic tears? He's gone. He's going to snap out of it to find a bunch of, what the fuck ever, Nazi stormtroopers surrounding him."

"They're Korean hires," Tsuchi corrected her. " _Jopok._ "

"Is that like yakuza?"

Tsuchi winced. _"Jopok._ Very different. They used to fight yakuza."

"Okay, but they're merc thugs." Kyra looked for his nod. "Same thing, then. He's going to snap out of it and a bunch of jackboots are going to beat the shit out of him. Not cool."

Krish remained crosslegged on the ground, as comfortable as he could be on a thin picnic towel. He sipped from a water bottle and coughed now and again. "Rose will send someone for him eventually if he doesn't show up."

"Why wait? I'm going." She got up from her seat on the long jungle grass.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Krish raised his hand. "This is how bad things start happening. Stay here, stay safe, that way Hurley doesn't have a coronary panicking about everything."

"I'm not worried about Hurley, I'm worried about the doc. There's time. I go to my house, I grab a couple things, I go to the Orchid, I come back with him in tow. No problem." She shrugged. "More problem if I sit here and talk about it. Going."

"Fu- Kyra!" Krish tried to rise up and flopped back down, coughing.

She paused and turned back to him. "You all right? You sound like hell this morning."

He coughed into his hand for a long minute, nodding his response and flapping his other hand at her. _Fine, I'm fine._ She didn't look convinced. Tsuchi looked between the two, worried. Kyra caught his look. "You keep an eye on him. I'll be back in a little bit."

"Wait-" Tsuchi tried to blurt, but she was gone.

. . .

Among the files Kyra recovered and Tsuchi sorted out were stacks of data output regarding viral and bacterial reproduction rates, mortality statistics, and incident test reports. Those troubled Albert Ellis the most. There was a frightening theme to them, and he could see the goal. A stable, weaponized bacterium that gave consistent results, could be controllable, and vaccinated against. Pneumatic plagues had come into vogue after the second World War and were ultimately difficult; this was septicemic, a rare strain of plague, attacking the blood. Mittelwerk had named it _Chiral –_ the uneven hand.

He'd succeeded in a delivery system. Vapor release, canister based. A good wind, and thousands could die within a day. Organ failure. Bleeding out. Rotting flesh on the living body. It would effectively nullify any populace it was used on.

What Mittelwerk didn't have yet was a serious full-release test in a controlled environment.

_"Oh shit,_ " whispered Ellis to himself. He began to sort through the on-hand antibiotics to see what could even put up a fight against a bug like that. He did not have high hopes.

. . .

Renee had been in the cavern of the island's heart once before, with Ben virtually hovering over her to ensure nothing went wrong. It made the survey difficult, although she understood his concern. Both he and Hurley had stressed the unusual nature of the cavern, and while she couldn't quite wrap her head around the concept of 'unplugging' a damned island, she believed that they believed and let it be. She respected his concern now, though she had no clue where the island assistant was.

Of the main room, the pool itself was certainly the oldest thing. Assessing the pool and its _djed-_ style _stele_ could be done at a careful distance, although she missed a great deal of the cuneiform markings on the pillar as it went under the water. The cuneiform on the stele were worn with great age but still slightly identifiable. In the dim light, she crept close to its edge and squinted at the stele then down at her notebook, copying marks from around its edge and trying to pin a guess as to its age.

It didn't take long for her to give up. It was _old_ , by any marker, and she could identify solidly that some of the less-worn marks were in fact Akkadian. Contemporary of the Sumerians, the ancestors of Babylon; reigns grand while the better-known Egyptians were just gaining their foothold. She managed to puzzle out one word – _egubbu –_ a basin of holy water. Well, that seemed apt.

Without access to a full team, a university library, and a computer, it would take years for her just to puzzle out the pool. So, fine. She swept her gaze around the cavern and attempted to take it in more generally. She had seen the later Latin scrawls before, but this time took a little extra effort to examine the old and new kingdom Egyptian glyphics as well. They told her stories; this watcher and that watcher, guardians of the pool. All hail Ra and Seteh and Sobek and Tawaret... the list went on, supplications to the eyes over the sacred island, a backwards line through history as different gods took prominence among the people.

At the far end of the room, opposite of the entry, the space dimmed into an eerie black. Unconcerned with superstitious shadows, Renee crept closer anyway, fighting it all back with the struggling light of her lamp. The darkness seemed to have weight to it, fought back against her intrusion, and she paused a little, feeling the strain of it far more than she ever did in any pharaoh's tomb.

Back here were the bodies; dry and pale and mummified. There was nothing to fear from them; they crackled faintly as the air moved and she was careful to not disturb them. Little glimmers marked their eras; one had a still-shining _aureus_ coin between its lips, another wore a lapis lazuli collar, another clutched his intaglio seal-stone. Roman, Egyptian, Mesopotamian. Side by side, like geography meant nothing. It hurt her head and she shook it as if to clear it and moved carefully on.

There weren't many bodies, but there were still some left down in the dark. She stood there for a long time, looking at the little forms and then at the walls above each of them, mute for a long time.

_"Ffffuuuuuuck,"_ she finally managed. "No one will ever believe this."

She drew back and sat quietly next to the gleaming pool for a long time, lost in her own swirling thoughts.


	22. The Iceman Cometh

22.

_Casual Understatement – That Han Solo Moment – IKEA Desks Suck – Always Doublecheck Your Luggage – The Timing of Teachable Moments – The Iceman Cometh_

"That's a really big boat." Hurley felt sheepish the moment he said it; the obvious understatement sinking into dead air like a bad Looney Tune joke. Ben said nothing in response, as if he hadn't heard Hurley speak. It was possible. There was room for little else, compared to the view.

The _Helgus Antonius_ sat on the far horizon, blocking the sunrise with its Handymax-class vessel size. Too big to go unnoticed, yet still far enough away to blur fine details, the massive container ship could have hosted several football games on its deck, if either of the two men observing could get over the notion that those football games would probably have a viral detonator jammed inside the pigskin. Hurley shook his head once, sharply, as if physically trying to shake such visions. The action was strong enough to shake his balance in the crunching sand. "I'm scared just looking at the thing, dude."

"It's merely a ship, Hugo. An insensate metal container."

"Nice try and I know that's supposed to help, but I know that, dude. The thing is the crazy guy running it."

Ben pursed his lips. "This also comes as no comfort, Hugo, but I highly doubt Mittelwerk is truly _crazy,_ in classical meanings of the term."

"Okay, whatever. I just... I don't know. I'm scared, and the worst of it is, I don't even think I'm just scared of that thing. I'm scared for everyone."

"The evacuation orders went off without a hitch, Hugo. We'll get Ms. Hume and her child safe. Everyone on the island is safe."

Something curled in Hurley's gut. "No, they're not." He lifted his chin to squint at a few glints in the distant water. "What're those?"

Ben stood in long silence before responding quietly. "Small boats being launched."

. . .

It took longer for Kyra to rummage through Ben's desk than it did to open the locks on it. Thus far the only home on the island that bothered to lock anything, Ben still had left matters with the most basic fastener to come with an IKEA desk. She amused herself with the concept that maybe he was slipping in his later career while she banged her fingers into thickly compiled documents (all mundane business) and random artifacts. It kept her from worrying about how much time she might have before things got tense on the island and how little chance she had of getting to Doc Ellis before anyone else.

Meanwhile, she'd wanted a weapon. Of all the places on the island, Ben's home had seemed the likeliest place to gear up. While no weapon rack was in sight when she'd entered, she'd assumed something _had_ to be lying around somewhere. It fit everything she knew of his nature.

She'd gone through three rooms of nothing so far. In desperation, she'd even checked in the piano bench. Kyra couldn't imagine the rationale behind keeping a weapon there, but if anyone might've done so, it was Ben. Instead, she'd only found sheet music for Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 11 in A major. The office desk, with its multiple bad locks, was her last chance.

She found success at last in a lower desk on the left side. At first, she found nothing but a picture frame, pulling it out when her hand had banged on it. A sweet-faced little girl and a smiling Benjamin Linus ( _with more hair, god help us all,_ she thought pointlessly) filled the image; the background full of the green-goldness of the island. It took her aback, senses nearly offended with the abrupt difference in reality. The innocence of the photograph contrasted too heavily with the bastard she assumed she knew. Blinking twice, she noticed the Glock .22 that had been laying underneath. Filled with sudden hesitancy, she plucked it from its place like a dead rat and carefully put the picture back where she'd found it.

It was time to get on with it.

She slunk outside in the shining dawn and glanced around to fix her sense of direction. Loping towards the jungle cover in the direction of the Orchid; her heart dropped as the wind carried the sound of words in rapid-fire Korean.

. . .

Tsuchi knelt next to Krish, his smaller hand grasping the pale, long-fingered one as the man gasped for air. With wide brown eyes, he looked up at Renee when she sat down next to him. She looked as pale as the young Indian man and he opened his mouth to ask what had happened down below.

She cut him off before he could start, eyes only for the man laying on the ground. "What's wrong, Krish?"

Krish's grasp tightened hard as he coughed, then shook his head. Tsuchi answered for him, voice shaky. Krish had managed to explain to Tsuchi and Rose a few moments prior; the latter was now a few yards away, rummaging through supplies for something, anything to help. "He forgot some of his medications at his home. His lungs hurt because he's cramping. Random attack."

The voice, thin and wheezy, wafted upward. "I'm an idiot." Tsuchi glared down into Krish's face. While the lips were still showing pain, some bright, wry humor still glinted in the man's eyes.

Renee shook her head. "Where the fuck is Kyra? She run off to get them?"

Krish gave another cough, this one sounding more like a sick laugh. Tsuchi squeezed back. "No, she left before that to get the doc from the lab. She doesn't know it's bad."

Renee's face twisted. "That sucks, I can't be mad at anyone."

"Are you okay? You look weird."

The archaeologist waved off the question. "Not the time. I'm fine." She turned her head as Rose began to approach. The only thing in her hand was a small radio. "We have anything?"

Grey-black hair shook the negative. "I can keep him hydrated, and I can fix a headache, but I can't fix this, honey."

"Shiiiiiit." Renee breathed the word out, ignoring the brief look of admonishment from Rose. "I can go back to the cabins and get his stuff."

Rose shook her head. "Someone should, but I've just heard from the boys. We're going to have landing parties all over this place pretty soon. It's a lot of risk, sweetie, and it's hard to get back here."

Tsuchi mumbled something, but Renee missed it in another blurted curse. "Okay, I'm not Lara Croft, but I'm pretty sure I can run to some buildings and back."

"The cabins have two good landing sites close to them. By the time you get there, you will probably have to dodge someone. Still confident? I do not want to say no, because the man clearly needs help, but I'm not blithely gonna stick two butts in trouble."

Tsuchi opened his mouth, closed it when Krish started coughing up words. "I'll be fine."

Rose looked down at him, her expression as comforting as possible. "I'm sure, kiddo. Just bear with us a moment here-"

"I'll go!" It came out a lot louder than he'd intended, and Tsuchi flushed. Renee and Rose looked at him. He swallowed hard. "I'm smaller and I can be pretty quick and... and I don't like being seen much, so I can go and be fast. They won't spot me." He smiled, trying to make it look confident but knowing deep down it probably looked like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of eels. Certainly felt that way in his gut.

Rose looked at him a long while. "I bet you could." Renee leaned back, startled silent. "Come with me over here."

Tsuchi gave Krish's hand one more squeeze and got up to follow her. Rose marched them to the edge of the makeshift camp and then pressed a flare into Tsuchi's hand. "You get there, you get what you need, you head back the way you came – _mostly._ Avoid the big field this time, go right around to the big patch of bamboo. Get on the other side of it however you can, you'll find a big hill and a bunch of dead brush. Pop the flare there and then listen for me. I'll get you back here safe. But most of all, you keep _yourself_ safe. Got that?"

"Yes'm."

"This is real life now, and big stakes. Krish will be alright one way or another. Listen to me."

He nodded rapidly.

"Okay. Okay. Go!"

Tsuchi fled.

. . .

Renee gave Rose a look of absolute shock and confusion when she came back. "Ro- what the. You argue with me but he can go."

"Around here, Ms. Kircher, you get a sense for when something sounds right. That sounded _right._ " Rose looked unrepentant.

"Yeah, but-"

"This isn't just about Krish – I'm sorry, Krish," A hand flapped up from the ground, indicating his total lack of insult. "It's about Tsuchi getting something done and not just for himself. You see what I mean?"

"This is a bullshit time for that. Can we have Sesame Street hour when we're not getting Beach of Normandy'd?"

"I'd say it's a perfect time. Things have a way of working out around here if you have a little faith." She patted Renee's shoulder as she swept by. "Now come sit with me and Krish and let's hear about what you found down below."

. . .

Hurley sat alone on the beach, his bulk perched surprisingly delicately on the side of an old and broken tree. His feet were bare and they scuffed the sand in circles to match the course of the butterflies in his stomach. He'd sent Ben away towards the temple a little while earlier, to make sure that everyone there was holding together. With fewer of the island's protections around the strange bit of Cambodian architecture, he thought it'd be good to have a little more human protection to balance it out.

The temptation had been huge to have the Heart checked on instead. It was a fifty-fifty in his instincts, but overall he felt there was really nothing he or Ben could actively do there. Hurley could sense events were in motion, but resisted the sickening potential of knowing more. Rose was with them, and for him, that was good enough. He had faith in her, and her faith was boundless. It would hopefully be enough.

More than anything, Hurley wanted to believe in the basic luck and inborn rightness of people. Sitting alone, watching a single, slightly larger boat leave the massive vessel to sail directly towards his place near the beach docks, it was the only pure dogma he had left to cling to.

As the ship grew closer, Hurley at last saw Thomas Mittelwerk with his own eyes. Whatever dogma that man clung to, it settled heavily in cold, emotionless eyes.

_I am so scared,_ thought Hurley. _What if he hurts my friends?_

He took one large swallow, inhaled, and rose up from his seat to greet his nightmare.


	23. Can't Band-Aid That

23.

_Can't Slap A Band-Aid on That Action – WWKD? - Real Life Is Not Ninja Gaiden – Ben Scares The Literal Crap Out of Everyone, Really – Kyra Answers The Previous Question_

Ellis finished rummaging through the Orchid's stockpile of medications with his face darkened and full of lost hope. A supply of aspirin, basic emergency antibiotics, cold and flu therapies, and first aid kits were going to do little against a plague designed to make 'bubonic' sound like a word one would hear from a Teletubby. The plain course of action was to not be exposed in the first place – but there were few masks on hand beyond the surgical variety. Even if he could find a cache of modern, effective gas masks, the logistics stumped him. There were dozens of people on the island, and as of the morning bell that he'd ignored a couple hours ago in favor of trying for something, anything, to help, they would be scattered in several safe spaces around the island.

Safe spaces that would have no natural air filtration.

Spaces – he realized with a dawning fuzzy horror – that he was supposed to be in himself. With further horror, he reminded himself that it wouldn't matter. If a test of the plague went off – and with what he'd gleaned of Mittelwerk and his science, he had no doubts the man had come to try – they were doomed.

Back to the simple course – stop exposure. His heart sank, unable to formulate a plan through his anxiety. Could they evacuate instead? Panic said not likely.

Above him, the machinery of the Orchid's elevator clanked into action. Ellis grasped instinctively that it would be Mittelwerk's guards and pet lab assistants, and neither group would be happy to see him. There were places in the lab he could hide in the short term – several nooks and crannies where the archaelogical tools and his little laboratory were not flush with the old building. But that wouldn't hold out. He cursed himself for not having left when he could, then cursed again for not being able to pull a medical miracle out of his ass.

As the elevator began to descend, another thought dropped in to visit and he contemplated it with some terrified, wry calculation – _What would Kyra do?_

He pulled his white lab coat on and blessed it for being plain and unlabeled, then shrunk himself into one of the darkest, out of the way nooks of the lab to wait and see if his dumb idea could work. He spent the last few seconds of the lowering elevator fervently praying that Mittelwerk was an equal opportunity employer.

. . .

Tsuchi ducked further into the stand of bamboo and flattened himself into the dark earth. In the distance, through the narrow beams of the plants, he saw half a dozen of the _jopok_ mercenariesmilling around the nest of islander homes. They had infiltrated the island far more quickly than most of the islanders would have guessed. His courage had sunk somewhere around the soles of his shoes when the wind had carried to him their laughing, unworried voices telling each other filthy jokes in their native language. A part of Tsuchi's brain noted they were all stale jokes that'd had their imageboard heyday at least two years ago. _Stunk on ice_ was the term he'd picked up from Krish. Next they'd move up to dead baby humor. He shifted very slightly to angle his view.

Krish's house was along the left arc of the little village, and the door hung slightly open. He suspected that at least one of the mercs had gone in and rummaged around, but he couldn't tell if there was anyone still inside. His worst fear bubbled up – what if they'd taken the bottles of medicine already?

A whimper bubbled up in his throat and he forced it to die there; he was terrified but he could do that much. Tsuchi couldn't know how many troops were actually present; too much chance that there could be a few lounging near his hiding place, or taking a piss on the trees nearby. It struck him that he could simply flee and use his flare to return to safety. He could tell the others why and it'd be the complete truth and no one could blame him. He _had_ tried. He had.

But if he didn't try harder, Krish might die. Another whimper tried to hiss out his nose and Tsuchi crinkled his face to stop it. He felt horrible. Krish always had a smile for him, even when there was pain in the older man's eyes. There had been a lot of pain in them just a little while ago. Tsuchi's stomach knotted at his options.

_Ryu Hayabusa has inadequately prepared me for this,_ he thought to himself in Japanese, looking at the natural dips in the earth and covering plantlife between him and the houses. _For a ninja, he really couldn't hide for shit._ He licked dry lips with a dry tongue and took a chance at scuttling closer to the cottages.

Not far from making it to the lee of one of the houses, buried deep in a stand of bushes and light-smelling flowers, Tsuchi bit off a startled cry when a hand dropped on his shoulder.

. . .

_"_ _What exactly do you think you're doing?"_ It was Ben's voice, dropped into a register so low it could be mistaken for a sibilant breeze. Tsuchi felt a sincere temptation to crap himself in relief. He turned his head and looked into the man's bright blue eyes. They blinked into his, crinkled in annoyance.

Tsuchi opened his mouth and then shut it again, feeling his voice try to croak into something too loud. He took a deep breath and tried again, pitching his seldom-used voice as soft as he could. "Krish. Krish at the river with the others – he's sick, something's wrong. He forgot his medicine."

The blue eyes closed briefly, then opened again. "So Rose sent you." In the whisper, an undertone of disbelief.

"I – volunteered." The eyes widened at that and Ben's hand fell free of Tsuchi's shoulder. It settled in the grass next to Ben's hunched form, the tips of his fingers making marks in the earth. "I have a flare, I need to get inside and then get back. I can. Maybe." He smiled a little, ruefully. "Can you help me?"

Ben examined the young man, his features settling into their typical blank slate. It was a virtual, abrupt monologue for the boy; the plea earnest. It was plain that he was scared shitless. A better plan would be to send the boy back to Rose and get the medication himself, but Hugo had specifically asked him to check on the islanders huddling at the temple. He'd only paused here because he'd spotted the boy's furtive dart into the brush. Too much further delay here would mean no contact with Bernard before a likely complication with the invaders pulled him back to Hugo's side. That would not do either. He rocked back on his heels, considering, then swept his gaze along the cottages.

Tsuchi felt oddly comforted by the man's silent thoughtfulness. He hadn't been rejected out of hand.

"You did well getting this far," Ben whispered after a long moment. Tsuchi felt a small ball of pride warm him. "They probably don't stay in the homes; they've rummaged each in turn. These half dozen are watching for visitors, but don't expect to see any. They've almost certainly been told we've all hid and that we're not stupid enough to lurk around here."

Tsuchi, still dropped in a properly lurking crouch, made a sour face.

"Exceptions happen." Ben added smoothly. He spoke again, his words rapid-fire and tactical. "But they aren't expecting any. That makes it much easier." He tilted his head slightly. "You were going for that near lee. A good start, but it'll only get you halfway. You'll be best served by going in the front while they're distracted – a sprint from that near corner will do it. Take as little time as you can. To exit again, Krish's cottage has a small window in the bathroom along the back wall, which is one of the only two rooms you should be wasting time in. The other is the kitchen. You're small, like me. Drop out of that window and, to put it clearly, _haul ass_ back into the bamboo and return to Rose."

Tsuchi let the concept of the plan roll around his mind. "Distraction?"

Ben glanced down at his compact, stout form with a wry half-smile. "I run quite quickly, actually. Particularly when there's a chance of chase. They won't know if it's one of us or a taste of the local wildlife, but tactics dictate they will investigate regardless. Now – we wait for them to turn. When you make it to the lee, I'll grant you a few seconds to catch your breath. Then you _move."_ He leaned in towards the boy. "Are you ready?"

Tsuchi was.

. . .

Kyra successfully ducked two patrols of mercenaries and a knotted gaggle of Mittelwerk's lab rats while looking for an alternate point of entry to the Orchid. She knew it was extremely unlikely that there'd be one, but she continued to hold out hope. From the time that she'd arrive to now, none of the groups acted as if they'd found anything unusual. Either they'd somehow not found Ellis, Ellis had managed to leave before the Koreans arrived, or finding him and immediately shooting him didn't qualify as anything unusual.

She really hoped it wasn't the last one on the list, but so far had seen nothing to help her deductions. Meanwhile, she eyed nearby stacks of coats set aside and rolling handcarts left in a cluster. The rats were moving whatever struck their interest out of the station and back to the cargo ship in a steady fashion.

Mutters of rapid-fire Korean reached her ears, mixed with technobabble in a half dozen accents that all might as well have been in the same incomprehensible language. She pursed her lips and considered her options when the latest group to come out of the station caught her eye.

Four of them, stuck deep in contemplation of whatever files they had found inside. They had a fifth with them – some hapless gopher sucker with a slopping box of additional data piled higher than his head. The indispensable assistant, required and yet beneath notice. His white lab coat was dirtied, the classic marks of someone that actually did his job, and dark knuckles gnarled around the bottom corners of the box. She watched him move with the diverse group of scientists past the _jopok_ checkpoint without a second glance given and felt a hysteric laugh claw up her throat.

_Fuck me, I'm a terrible fucking influence!_

Ellis had safely slid his own way out of the Orchid. The laugh died of its own accord when she realized he was not splitting from the group.

_He's going for gold. Holy fuckin' shit, the doc's gonna try for the big bitch._

She snaked a hand out of her hiding place and snagged a coat for herself. _Well, I'm not going to let him get killed on that thing alone._


	24. Hurley Stands

24.

_Hurley Stands - The View From The Temple – Aren't You A Little Womanly To Be a Stormtrooper – Ellis Has A Plan_

Thomas Mittelwerk was a thin, hatchet-faced man with slicked back dark hair, a full head shorter than Hurley. As the man stepped off the boat, the bland, cold eyes skimmed over Hurley in a casual dismissal – the island's protector striking him as obviously uninteresting and not worth more than a basic acknowledgment. Then they hooded underneath a pale, gnarled brow, in an unreadable way that was more familiar – and less hateful – in Ben.

Hurley flushed – in shame or anger, he couldn't quite tell – and stood up from the old tree he had been sitting on. He narrowed his eyes as the doctor murmured instructions to the small coterie of assistants he'd brought with him – only a couple of the Korean guards, three white coated men and one women. Mittelwerk brought a crew for basic caution, it was clear he felt no fear. "You're not welcome here." Hurley's voice came out flat and a little too quiet – he'd managed to avoid putting his fear of the invaders in his voice, but couldn't manage any power. Mittelwerk gave him a pointed, amused glance. "This isn't any place for you." That was better. Firm.

The glance turned into a smirk. "Hugo Reyes. I was here long before your birth and I will be here after your death. Please spare me the local mysticism; I found it incalculably boring the first time." He knotted pale hands together and gave Hurley a longer appraisal.

The flush deepened, now definitely anger. "My friends call me Hurley. You can stick with Mr. Reyes, in the words, 'Mr. Reyes, I'm sorry I'm a smug jerk, now I'm going to take all my other little jerks and get back on my stupid boat and get the hell out of here. Right after I let Penny and her kid go.'"

Mittelwerk's face contorted into something that vaguely resembled a smile and took a clipboard from one of his assistants, thudding it once against his leg. "Mr. Reyes – may I sit?" He dropped onto Hurley's dead tree seat without waiting for an answer, then brought his face up to look into Hurley's again. "My assessment of you is quick – apparently insultingly quick – but I stand by it. Our conversation will not interest me long; I have a schedule to keep today, one I have been waiting a very long time to execute properly. You do not interest me. You have in mere moments amused me more than my _employer_ , who disguises his bravado and dull mind with delusions of power." He marked something down on his clipboard and tossed it back to the assistant, who turned and jogged up the beach towards another knot of invaders. "It's a compliment of a sort, though one I'm sure is lost here. So – to your point. We are already finished. There is nothing to say, no negotiation. Within the half hour, my schedule will execute and we will observe the results."

He snapped his fingers at the guards, who went to the beached vessel and began to haul a long crate out of it. Hurley could read the word _gasmaske_ stamped along its side and thought to himself that it was a dumb way to spell 'gas mask' before it struck him it was probably some European version of the word.

"You get those from a World War II re-enactor?"

Mittelwerk arched an eyebrow.

"The Nazis lost, you know, and everyone thinks they're the biggest dickbags in history."

"But the legacy of science lives on."

"Science? What stupid science is this?" Hurley's face wrenched, disgusted.

"The science of _survival._ The continuation of the species. We have overcome a thousand bottlenecks in our history, and grown stronger each time." The eyes lidded, lips quirking slightly. "I could advise several texts on the matter, including Richard Evans' seminal works discussing the value of the collection of Nazi science. Before your face twists so again, I advise him as a historian, not some ridiculous anti-Semite. The foolishness of the scientific community under the regime was their narrow focus; this ridiculous insistence on genetic markers rather than accepting and understanding the glory of the diversity they had on hand." He shrugged. "Of course, this is moot."

"At least you're being all equal and crap about being a dick."

"Egalitarian. _"_ The face looked away from him, towards the boat, and then down towards his watch.

_Oh no you don't, jerkass, only Ben gets to correct me because he knows better to get all snooty about it._ Hurley felt his anger grow cold enough to make him dizzy and he put a hand out to steady himself. It wasn't anger screwing up his head and stomach. _Ah crap._ His mouth moved before he could think. "You're not as smart, as prepared, as finished as you think. This island is bigger than you, your tiny little fake scientist dinky, and on every level is way bigger than what crap you've got on that boat. You came here to look down on me; on everyone on this island." He pulled in a deep breath and stood up straight, glowering down at his boogeyman, then rolled with what his gut told him to say. "You are full of wrong, and you're gonna see it first hand. And then, little guy?" He stabbed out a pointing finger.

"You can go get screwed."

. . .

If he were going to be honest – an often fruitless exercise, he would easily confess – Ben could elucidate in long, florid monologues about how much he disliked the temple. He'd disliked it in his youth; the strange Cambodian structure striking some frayed and unnamed nerve deep in his gut. The architecture was strange, he'd thought. The mazelike interior unnerving – true enough. It smelled oddly. Realizing now in his later years so many more and thorough reasons _why_ he actually disliked it fulfilled that instinct with something more like lurching nausea.

Bernard saw the same tranquil, blank expression on Ben's face as every other day ending in 'y,' mostly to ensure that the one time he might have actually shown an identifiable emotion, it didn't get read as fear of the invaders.

...Although if he were going to be honest, the dots of the distant boats hit that same frightened nerve. If honesty were his thing. Ben told himself irritatedly this was not going to be the day to wholly take up a new methodology and instead let himself be led through the temple to check on safety precautions.

. . .

"Think we look alright?" Bernard glanced at Ben. "It's short notice, but with the current tunnel maps, I think we'll be fine if they come inland."

_Frankly, I'd like a few M2 Browning machine guns and maybe a moat just in the remote chance,_ he didn't reply. "For what we have to work with, the situation looks good." Ben quirked an eyebrow for emphasis. "It may actually be moot; I haven't seen many signs of them going too far inland."

Bernard turned to regard him thoughtfully. "That's interesting."

"Or bad. I'm hedging on bad; as prisoners we could mount an escape."

"You think they're not looking for prisoners."

Ben's formless nerve twinged again, this time fleeting something across his face before he reined it in. Bernard grabbed his arm and pulled him into a side corridor away from some wandering islanders. "Son, you looked scared. That's not something I think I've seen before."

"You weren't meant to." The words came out clipped; he closed his eyes and centered himself. "I can't stop thinking about the Purge." The grip on his arm tightened. "Do _not_ tell the rest that. Do not let them realize any fear from me." He opened his eyes and glared at Bernard, who looked steadily back at him.

"Rose would point out that being scared is sometimes the first start to mounting an actual defense."

Ben's lips pursed. "If what we face is what I _fear_ , defense is beside the point."

"So what's the option?"

The word formed in Ben's mind, tinted with far less bitter than he'd believed possible. His face turned contemplative at that. "Hope."

. . .

Penelope Hume bounced Charlie on her knee, mind still marking every step. At approximately every sixth hour, a guard came to physically check on her. Always large, always blank, always with a hand on a blackjack he kept on his belt. She glowered at him, the guard stared wordlessly back. He would stomp away again, and then the next visitor would bring a plate of food. She kept Charlie fed and content, but she wagered she was dining well enough on pure anger.

At the second hour after her last check in, there was a brief scuttling outside her door and her head jerked up. Something different was happening. She curled her arm comfortingly around her fussing son and then gently pushed him further behind her on the bed. There was a small, laughably harmless footstool at hand and she grabbed it anyway – small chance better than none, she reckoned, and tensed when the door rattled and then opened again.

She raised her arms to strike and then froze at the sight of the olive-faced woman in a lab coat. "Hi," the visitor chirped. "Looking for Princess Leia, plus one, are you the droids we're looking for?" She craned her head around to wink at the little boy. "Think so!" She stuck out her hand, Penelope shook it out of startled instinct once she'd lowered the footstool. "Kyra. Doc Ellis is wandering around a floor below. We work for Hurley."

"How the bloody did you get here?"

"Same way I get anywhere; we walked in."

Penelope leaned out into the corridor and looked both ways. "Security is that bad?"

"They're serene; they think nobody'd try and they're not looking twice at anyone that looks like they might belong. It's lazy, not exactly bad. I could give you a dissertation about how it works but now's not a great time. Your kid'll complicate it a bit so now we're going to have to be a lot more subtle." Kyra thumbed down the left hallway. "Med bays are a floor down, cargo appears to be below that with some sort of crazy launch elevator in it. Ellis – he's our island doc – is shitting the proverbial brick. Sorry. Language."

"Desmond says far worse, much to my dismay. We're carrying a plague." Penelope hauled Charlie up to her shoulder and followed Kyra out. "I know. Any plans?"

"Kinda hoping the doc comes up with something."

. . .

_I don't have a plan._ Albert Ellis milled past a group of researchers examining a display that cycled projected bacterial growth. None of them spared him a second glance, especially after he did his best to examine the data display with a properly disinterested rub of his chin. He hoped they wouldn't spot the beads of sweat on his forehead. _I count five different cylinders on the launch platform below. Once it goes up to the deck, the platform springloads and catapults it towards the island. They've calculated for wind variances, weight, impact. Once it hits, the high pressure canisters rupture and the thing spreads like blazes across the island. Simple, almost elegant. I think I want to vomit._

He spotted Kyra in a space near the hallway, jerking a thumb at him. He turned, pretended to make a note on one of the checklist clipboards – there seemed to be a hundred of them at every data center in the vast laboratory – and wandered out of the room with as much confidence as he could fake.

"Woman, how do you do this as a job?" he hissed when he joined her.

"I drink. A fucking lot. You come up with a plan?"

"I don't have shi- a pleasure to meet you, miss." He nodded cordially at the blonde woman and her son, leaning quietly behind a pile of crates taken from the island. "Pardon that."

Penelope nodded a greeting back. "Pretty understandable, Doctor, given circumstances." She gestured a free hand at the room. "You've had time to assess what we're dealing with."

"Yes ma'am. It's a simple setup, unfortunately. Hard to counter." He outlined what he'd seen, skimming over the profiles of the airborne septicemic plague he'd seen on several of the workstations.

Kyra mulled it over. "No point in getting into the computers, you say they're locked on schedule." She looked at Penelope. "We're not going to get the canisters off the platform. We can't evacuate the island. Fuck."

Ellis froze as something struck him. Kyra glanced at him, concerned, and he raised a hand to forestall questions. Something was _right there._

_Oh God, sweet Lord in His merciful Heaven, could something that simple possibly work?_

The researchers were in their own haze. Security didn't care. They felt safe, locked on course. Who cared about the small stuff?

"Stay right here," he said, his face tight with possibility. He slid through the room, nodded to another researcher with a 'we absolutely know each other but not quite sure from where, so we'll just nod and spare each other any awkwardness' touch of friendliness and went to a bay of camera feeds that looked into the hold and its deadly cargo below. It was virtually empty – a guard was visible through the external door into the hallway. Inside, a couple of uncomfortable-looking engineers... and some spare canisters. He toggled a camera control, noted temperature checks and air quality alerts on a sheet as another researcher walked by, and bit his lip. No other surprises visible. He made his way back and jerked his thumb at Kyra.

"You and I need to get downstairs."

Kyra looked at him, eyes wide. "You got a plan?"

"I have got a simple fuckin' plan."

She hugged him.


	25. It's The Final Countdown

25.

_Krish Takes a Swallow – Suit Up And Stand By – It's the Final Countdown - All Hell Prepares To Break Loose_

The breeze was cool around the heart of the island, but Krish was slick with sweat. Renee did her best to keep a comforting smile on her face for him, resisting every impulse to pull her hand out from under his neck to wipe it dry, but his eyes were seldom on her. His gaze flicked around the sky instead, the pupils drawn into tiny dots trapped in a huge sea of green. She wondered if he was actually seeing anything. He murmured occasionally, things in Hindi that she couldn't grasp save the occasional name – hers, Kyra's, Tsuchi, other names she suspected were his family. He hitched in a hard, painful breath and each movement gave his heart another bout of rapid thudding.

_Is this him dying?_ she wondered. _And if it isn't, can this whatever he has get worse?_

She felt completely helpless and angry at this reminder of fragile humanity, glared up at the sky and didn't see what he might. _I thought this fucking place was supposed to help people. How do I square_ this _with what's below?_

Krish murmured something unintelligible and placed his thin, paled hand on hers. She looked down into his face again and squinted. He shifted, squeezed her hand. " _Tsuchi."_ He smiled, but the eyes were unchanged.

Renee heard the sounds of people talking on the other side of the little creek and jerked her head up. He was right. Tsuchi had returned.

. . .

Rose helped Tsuchi sort out the handful of pill bottles. "Blood pressure medication, honey. This one's pain... diabetes complications... We'll get blood pressure down him first and then pain. Hopefully by then he'll be with it enough to know what else he can take and when. You have any problems?" She looked the young man in the eye.

"Went okay, very scary. Not at all like a game, but Ben helped me." He flashed Rose a quick grin and took the two proffered bottles, then sat down next to Renee.

Rose blinked twice, very quickly. "He did?"

"Mhm."

She let it pass with no further comment, watching to be sure the two of them had no problems. Renee tilted Krish's head as his shaking hand came up to take the water bottle from her. He swallowed easily enough, then took the small handful of pills from Krish. "Okay," he rasped. "I'll be okay." He let the water bottle drop, then reached out to take Tsuchi's hand, squeezed it hard, closing his eyes at last. The young man beamed down at him.

The archaeologist shot Rose a look over the prone body. _Pills don't work that fast_ she mouthed.

Rose shook her head. _Wasn't the pills he really needed, honey._ She didn't need to mouth the reply to get the response across.

Renee rocked gently back on her heels to contemplate that.

. . .

Mittelwerk absorbed Hurley's fiery outburst with the same long, cool look of disinterest he wore since disembarking. The protector's passion left him unmoved outward and in, although one of his assistants shifted uncomfortably in the still, warm air. The scientist shrugged and stood back up, brushing flecks of bark from his pants and taking a long sniff. "Time?"

"Fifteen minutes, Doctor."

"Pass out the masks." He turned his face back towards Hurley. "Please forgive my rudeness in declining to offer you one." He took a plasticky bundle from one of the Korean guards and pulled it over his head in a practiced, easy movement. The other guard muttered something into a walkie-talkie; presumably the rest of the island force would be donning theirs as well.

Hurley took an angry step forward, prompting the guards to put a hand on each holster. "Ignore him; he'll do nothing," came the muffled order. "Ladies and gentlemen, please observe. Eight minutes now by my watch."

. . .

Ben gripped the binoculars tightly enough to whiten the knuckles, lowered them to glance at Bernard. Korean guards had arrived in a nearby field a short time earlier; the two factions had a view of one another but the Koreans would still have a push upland to strike the Temple. A flurry of movement pulled them into a line with a notable fashion difference.

"Gas masks. One thing you'd really think we'd have kept around after all that nonsense a few decades ago." The older man shrugged.

Ben pulled a dour face. Bernard had a point even as the irony of the situation settled in hard. "Wind's coming from the ship's direction."

"Still got that hope?"

Ben jerked his head the side quickly in an wry little jiggle. "We're gonna find out fast."

. . .

A klaxon sounded on the _Helgus Antonius,_ the one minute warning for crew members to clear the deck. Metal scraped and clanged as a comparatively small platform loaded with half a dozen canisters slid into position on the foredeck; mechanical winches locked into place, and a series of beeps began to whittle down a count.

It seemed as if the island collectively held its breath in unison with Hurley on the beach, a line of scientists watching him through plastic and glass as if he were some particularly interesting bug about to face an extinction level event. Which, he figured, was probably about the case for them.

He decided to ignore them and faced the cargo ship instead. He closed his eyes.

_Please!_

. . .

Three more beeps. Two.

One.

. . .

The platform creaked in a hellish cacophony and launched its cargo in an elegant arc towards the island. Hurley opened his eyes and saw it reach the top of its trajectory, the six barrels still strapped to a heavy pallet with the pallet side up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mittelwerk jerk forward, hands outstretched, having calculated something only he so far saw.

" _No!"_

The arc began to complete and the canisters smashed down – into the ocean, forty yards away from the island, dispersing its deadly cargo harmlessly into the water.

. . .

Mittelwerk whirled on the guards and barked something in German. The _jopok_ looked at him through glassy mask lenses and did nothing. He ripped the mask off and screamed again, this time in English. "Secondary containment! Take prisoners!" He pointed a finger where Hurley had been standing, turned his head to confirm.

Hurley was already halfway up the beach, shuffling his large form out of danger at a brisk pace. He glanced back over his shoulder at the stunned scientist and began to laugh at the look on the older man's face. It touched off a cold taste of real infuriation.

"Why is he getting away?" he yowled. Mittelwerk ignored one of the assistants who was trying to flag for his attention, jabbing a finger at the guards instead.

"You said he was of no concern," came the reply.

"That was _then,_ you ridiculous bags of meat! Get after him!" He whirled on the young lab assistant. " _What?"_

The young man pointed wordlessly on the horizon. There were now two huge vessels on the horizon. Mittelwerk stepped towards the water and openly gaped in disbelief.


	26. I'm On A Boat - Get Me Off Remix

26.

_Sweep The Island – I'm On A Boat (Get Me Off Remix) – Meanwhile! – Rescue Mission – Reunion – El-ahrairah Sympathizes_

"Uh-oh," Ben said. His tone was mild but he dropped the binoculars from his eyes with a quick, clipped movement. "Bernard, get ready to move everyone inside the temple as far underground as you can get and as fast as possible. _"_

Bernard glanced down at the far field and noted the scurry of movement. "They didn't get the order they expected."

"That gives us an extra few seconds to move. Go. _Now."_

The older man stepped back into the stone arch and placed a hand on cool, dark stone, as if to steady himself. "What about you?"

"Hare to the hound. I'll buy another few seconds while they shoot at me."

" _Linus!"_ The possible implications of the act were not lost on him.

Ben whirled on Bernard, eyes ablaze. His voice came out in a ragged scream. "I said go!"

. . .

"We have to hide until we get boarded, if we get boarded and even then, we gotta be really careful. The nest just freaked the fuck out, guys." Kyra grabbed the doc's shoulder and shoved him down one of the lesser used hallways. "There's no promise these assholes won't Jonestown on us instead of taking on whoever the new kids are. Shit, maybe they're backup."

"They're with Hanso." Penelope kept her grip on Charlie, keeping the little boy's face nestled into her shoulder for comfort. "The flag they're flying; it's their corporate mark." She jutted her chin up at Kyra's startled look. "I saw it for just a second on the monitors back there."

"...Good eyes." Kyra began to move again, hustling forward to glance down both paths of the next junction. It was clear. "You think that's good news?"

"I hope so."

"Backup for _us?"_ Kyra shook her head and took the left. "It doesn't matter. Doc, quit getting in front of me. They're not that stupid, cargo knows it was a tall black guy that told them to add a barrel and they'll be happy to shoot your ass."

"Was a good plan, though."

"It was a _terrific_ plan." She flashed him a grin. "You ever get sick of science, I have some great connections for you."  
"Lady, there isn't enough stomach medication in the world to get me through that stress daily."

"Ain't _that_ some truth." Kyra snorted, then ducked when the ship's PA system began to squeal.

. . .

_ATTENTION, STAFF. ALL ARMED PERSONNEL ARE TO FORM AT THE UPPER DECKS TO PREPARE TO REPEL BOARDERS, EXCLUDING SQUAD 571. SCIENTIFIC PERSONNEL ARE TO ORGANIZE IN THE LOWER CARGO DECK. PLEASE PROCEED CALMLY._

_. . ._

Doc squinted. "What's Squad 571?"

"I'm not going to go ask. They might sweep for stragglers. Shit." Kyra paused the group at another junction, signs indicating paths to the mess, to the cabins, and back towards the labs and cargo. "Let's get into the mess. Might be some cubbyholes in there we can co-opt."

Penelope glanced down the hallway she indicated. "Best shot?"

"Worked in _Jurassic Park."_

"We aren't dealing with velociraptors."

"Are you absolutely certain about that?" Kyra arched an eyebrow. "Okay, you look pretty certain. Yeah, best shot. All we gotta do is lay low and outlast this." _I hope,_ she thought. "I want that kid of yours to have a chance at seeing all the good Spielberg flicks after this," she said out loud instead.

. . .

_Yeoksam-dong, South Korea_

When the call came from the front desk, Woo-Jung Paik left his office and waited quietly in his second boardroom. His fingers traced the lip of one the _Jeulmon_ pottery bowls he kept as he sat in a fine mahogany chair, centered in his grand golden window. He looked out upon his imperial view, rendered prosaic and glaring in the full daylight, and his thoughts were empty, save for a single thought.

_I have been betrayed._

The door opened behind him and he raised his chin to stare out over the horizon.

"Mr. Paik." The voice was a quiet, courtly Southern drawl. "I am an agent of Interpol, offering liaison assistance to local and international enforcement. As such, I do not have the authority to arrest you."

"But I am to be under arrest," Paik interjected in English.

"You are most correct." The voice was suddenly much closer. Slightly startled, Paik glanced to his right and spied the tall, slender man all in black. He was nearly a looming gargoyle. Pale, spidery fingers reached down and plucked the precious antique from his lap. "How lovely. Late _Jeulmon,_ clearly. Like many simple and elegant arts, ended via encroachment of those with shortsighted, violent goals." There was a note of reproach in the man's voice and the bowl lifted further away to be placed reverentially back on its pedestal.

"As we stand here, the _Helgus Antonius_ is being intercepted by those with the best chance of resolving that situation. I pray that they have arrived in time to do so. Meanwhile, I am under the impression that you do not have a full understanding of what Dr. Mittelwerk has done under your purview."

"Mittelwerk is his own man." Paik pursed his lips and turned away.

"And yet your name marks many trails. A shame, then, that your name will be associated with the greatest potential threat of biological terrorism in modern history. The charges will be outlined to you shortly. But there will be blood on your hands, and all of humanity will know you for that."

The man swooped down into Paik's view, fixing the Korean man's dark eyes with his own pale, unreadable ones. "I grant you the first full punishment of these acts that you can suffer: You will _never_ see your grandchild. That is promised."

Paik tried to rise in wounded fury, but a deceptively strong hand held him down in place. A moment later, KNPA officers marched into the boardroom and made the arrest official.

. . .

Richard Alpert grabbed Desmond's arm to tug him out of the way of a lone mercenary. "I checked with the patrol on this floor, nothing. There's nobody else alive yet."

"She's _here."_ Desmond whirled on him, nearly spitting. "Everyone always asks about faith on this fucking island. There's my faith. She's here, my son is here, and they will be all right. _That's_ my faith."

Alpert nodded. "I know. There's several floors left. They're just getting into the cabins and the mess area. No identification out of the cargo deck."

Desmond eyed him. "You're certain."

"So far. Desmond, I will not lie to you."

. . .

Through an intermediary, Alvar Hanso had provided a transport ship and a small contingent of discreet mercenaries of his own to intercept Mittelwerk. The skirmish on deck had been brief, the Korean mafia fighters desperate but ultimately outgunned by the trained, international squad of professionals. A handful jumped into the water to escape and were being watched for. The rest of the ship had been eerily silent. Scouts had gone ahead to do a fast sweep ahead of a full search, halting at the cargo hold. Had Kyra Glaukopis been with them, she might have added a sardonic _told you that was coming._

Several dozen scientists lay dead, scattered around the hold. Many had suicided quietly when ordered – the rest appeared to have been shot by the small squad of also-suicided men at the doorway. The smell of gunfire hung heavy in the air; grimly, the order to fall had likely come the moment successful invasion was certain. Other fires burned in the labs above, a last ditch attempt to cover their intent.

. . .

Penelope's eyes met Kyra's in the dark of the large food cabinet. A tiny crack allowed just enough light and sound to communicate silently. An industrial sized can of tomato sauce dug into her back but she held still. Footsteps clanged up and down the mess outside. Kyra's expression was tense, her hand up in a position that meant _hold._ Ellis was in the next cabinet, prepared to not move until they did.

_"_ _Check in the back. Anybody?"_

_"_ _Nothing, sir. Want me to check the cabinets?"_

_"_ _Next sweep. It's unlikely. Nobody down in the cabins, either."_

Penelope furrowed her brow. She mouthed to Kyra. _I think these are safe._

Kyra stared evenly back. _Maybe._

_"_ _PENNNNY!"_ The name came out a roar. " _Dammit, love, I know you're around here somewhere!"_

Kyra's lips quirked, the little motion visible in the dim. _That your fella?_ Penelope grinned back, Charlie fussing loudly at the sound of his father's voice. She didn't try to restrain him. Kyra slammed the door open, causing the two mercenaries to take a defensive position. She popped the two men a thumbs up. "How's your day goin', guys? Ours just improved."

_"_ _Des!"_

Kyra leaned back and let the blond woman push quickly past her.

"Penny!"

_"ELLLIIIIS!"_ The doctor opened the neighboring cabinet and fixed Kyra with a long, confused look. She shrugged back and cleared her throat. "I was feeling left out."

. . .

If Benjamin Linus had a spirit animal, it was clearly a rabbit. The comparison – oft invoked by himself – bit sharply as he managed to functionally tree himself in a patch of thick jungle a half mile away from the temple. He considered it acceptable; at least half the _jopok_ had broken from the main group to give chase to him and that upped the odds of the other islanders outlasting the rest. Given enough time and terrain superiority, any force could be expelled from the island. He knew this from grave and horrible experience. It often meant sacrifice, however, and the hour of his may have drawn close. At least eight men patrolled nearby. One had come near enough that Ben thought he could smell aftershave.

_I did promise to not harm anyone, Hugo. But if I am indeed cornered, I_ will _take a few of them with me. For others. For your safety._ His lips tightened. His old friend and companion, the slender tactical baton, waited lightly in his hand. He played a hundred different combat scenarios in his mind, ready.

A spatter of close gunfire broke the sky and he hunkered in a dip by a banyan tree on instinct. Birds screamed avian obscenity and then fell quiet again.

And quiet.

And only silence, save for the returning buzz of insects in the tall grass. Still, he did not move. He could wait to be sure. He could wait a very long time.

And then -

"Ben?"

"...Hugo?" He whispered the name.

"I think it's over, dude. They, uh... they're all kinda..."

"I heard. They're dying, then. They gave up." Ben closed his eyes, then opened them and rose from his hiding place. Hurley stood at the edge of the tangled patch, framed in clear sunlight. The big man looked at Ben, clearly worried for him. The irony of that made Ben laugh and he worked his way out to pat Hurley's arm. "Everything is going to be all right."


	27. Little Talks

27.

_And The Rock Cried Out - No Hiding Place – Phone Call – Weenie Roast – Little Talks_

Dr. Thomas Mittelwerk had never seen the island with his own eyes. When the DHARMA Initiative began construction on the island in 1970, he oversaw certain changes to the project's original intent even as he worked side by side with the DeGroots. Despite his distance, he felt he knew the island's layout in his very bones. Every photograph, every report, every planted root that DHARMA had left was his to absorb. To learn from. He had taken to a kind of paternal adoption of the island, he felt. It was destined to be his; the perfect bottle for ornate study of the human condition. In his sleep, he could have sketched the contours of the island, marked the boundaries of sea and sand. He knew the faces of those who had died. He could graph the spread of the Purge protocol.

He could not understand what was going wrong.

The failed pathogen release he grasped; someone had made a grievous, expensive error. His sharp eyes had almost immediately noted the mistaken proportions of the delivery pallet. That could have been ameliorated, given time. Time was not given; just after the sight of the second ship – _Hanso's_ ship, damn the old hermit – he had given the order for the suicide protocol. The dead could give away nothing of his aspirations. All he had to do was go to ground, to survive long enough to steal a way out. He knew the theories, saw Dr. Chang's work. If not a departing ship, then perhaps the Orchid anomaly.

But first – to hide. He knew the paths to the old cabins; the _jopok_ had radio'd him to confirm the location. It would do for a start. Perhaps even take a hostage if necessary.

So where was the path?

He stood again at a gap of banyan and bamboo, a cruel sense of _deja vu_ tensing his stomach. The handle of a gun felt too sweaty in his palm. It seemed he'd encountered the exact same stretch of sand at least twice so far, and ducking from view into the jungle simply led him back. That wasn't right. There was a copse that he recalled from long ago footage; a small hill, a few stands of foliage, and the path was simple. He found all of those and even a narrow, foot-driven path that seemed right, and yet his feet found their way back to the coverless view of the two distant ships.

Mittelwerk swore once, softly, and plunged again into the jungle to try his instincts once more.

. . .

Benjamin Linus trailed Hurley by a few feet, tactical baton still swaying lightly in his grasp. He had personally verified a half dozen suicided mercenaries; Bernard at the temple had since notified him of more. The worst two batches were going to be near the cabins, and the ones set to pillage the Orchid station with the scientists. He was going to have to broach the discussion of disposal shortly; the island knew only two seasons, summer and typhoon, and both were uncaring and harsh in their treatment of the dead.

Not, at least, that he had to worry about infection and plague from that vector. _Still,_ he mechanically noted to himself. _Putrescence does a thing to morale._

"We'll ask volunteers to take them to the far beach near the docks and have a bonfire, I guess. That's kinda weird and icky, too, but I don't think having Frank fly 'em out for burial's gonna work either. Maybe Hanso can take 'em? I don't know." Hurley sounded exhausted but not grieving. A brief, superstitious chill ran Ben's spine at the response to his unspoken thoughts and he shrugged it away with a grimace. Hurley knew Ben well enough by now to not need the island's whispers to guess at his businesslike handling of the morbid.

"That's a possibility. The ship hasn't made any contact yet," he reminded the protector gently. "So I'd rather not make assumptions on their behalf."

"All this crap is Hanso's problem too, though, right?"

"Yes-" Ben halted in his tracks as something creaked at the edge of the jungle not far ahead. His empty hand flashed out and grabbed Hurley's thicker arm with a firm grasp. The big man had already stopped, but he edged back at the contact. _"Wait,"_ he hissed, in a low, sibilant voice.

Ben slid past Hurley silently, not even the rustle of his pants working against him any longer. On instinct, the baton quietly snapped into readiness in his right hand. His head cocked to the side, listening for another trace of the sound. Only bugs – and a rustle of grass, twenty meters to the east. _Close to the cabin paths._ His lips pursed, then flashed teeth. A survivor, looking for safety. He hunched down to skulk, prepared to track this potentially last intruder.

"No."

Ben whipped his head around. Hurley was smiling at him, a little sadly. "It's the doc. Er, other doc. Crap doc, not ours. Mittelwerk guy."

"Then you should definitely keep your voice down!" Ben's blue eyes flashed. "I don't gather he's going to dissemble should he get a chance to spy us!"

"He won't. He's always wanted to be here, you know. I could tell. It's like... I looked at him?" He shifted his weight and shoved his hands into the pockets of his dirty jeans. " And the only thing he's ever really felt in his life is when he really wants or thinks he owns something. I think that's why he was so into the Hanso Foundation and stuff. He got power there; he could steal it. It's like that's what he gets off of. Taking things and making them his. And... he thought this place was his. And it's not, it's not anybody's."

Hurley swallowed and shrugged a little, looking sad. "But he's the island's now. I guess I'm sort of okay with that."

"Hugo."

"Cuz he's the sort of jerk that could talk his way out of a lot of all this if he gets out. And that'd be really, really wrong."

" _Hugo."_ Ben collapsed the baton. "I don't understand."

"I do. It sucks. He's gonna die here and that's pretty much gonna be the end of it." He lifted his head and gave Ben a wet, teary look. "But in a way, it's sort of what he'd want. And I _can't_ let you hurt him. Cuz you'd be hurting yourself now. That crap's done, dude. I want to help people on this island. Guess I sorta started with you without telling you. Sorry, man."

Ben glanced to either side, selected a thick, ropey banyan tree to lean against, stunned into complete silence. In the distance, a hiss of grass and the crackle of branches. He turned his head to look where there ought to be an intruder, and saw nothing, just as promised. He took in a heavy, jerky sigh and put the baton away in a deep pants pocket, and then crossed his arms over his chest. He found himself unable to look at Hurley. "I don't need help." It sounded thin in his own ears.

"You're not over your daughter, you're projecting some sort of crabby like and hate thing onto like half the gang-"

"Aggressive ambivalence." Dead flat voice.

"Sure, that. You're still looking for something to fight, though at least you're sorta helping people before you go get yourself shot up, and you've spent the last week terrified that this crap is going to lead to, I dunno, another decade of 'us vs. them' war."

"I am not _terrified."_ He shifted against the tree.

"And _worst of all,_ you don't even lie that great anymore. Damn, dude. That's, like, your signature role. I don't think even Bernard sounded like he was buying it today. _Bernard._ He's smart, but he's like as peaceful and out of it as _me_ sometimes. Jeeze! I can't go around being honest all the time, it'll kill me."

Ben snapped his head around to frankly gawk at Hurley. The big man's expression was still weary, but he had that pudgy, joking grin that went all the way into his eyes. Unable to help himself, Ben uttered a short, sharply surprised laugh.

. . .

Hanso's people would in fact ultimately take the bodies. A small boat with a little over half a dozen passengers approached the shore of the island not long after Ben and Hurley came back to the edge of the shore. Most of them got out and sloshed their way onto the clear, clean beach with smiles on their faces – Desmond, Penelope, little Charlie, Kyra, Doc Ellis, and Richard, whose smile looked wry enough to match Ben's own. The boat's operator remained aboard, tossing a thick, industrial looking phone to Richard to bring ashore.

"They don't want to presume, which is kind of a nice change," Alpert explained to Ben's arched eyebrow. He outlined the offer to help clean up after the attack, as had been explained to him by their intermediaries in Europe, and offered Hurley the phone. "Not sure what's going on there, but someone wants to talk to you."

"'Kay. They're invited, by the way." Hurley fiddled with the heavy device. "I don't mind this time. I think it'll be alright." The phone began to buzz in his hand, causing him to look down at it with a bit of a jump. "Satellite phones again. So weird." He squinted down, looking for the right button, and found it at the base. "H'lo?"

. . .

_"Good afternoon, Mr. Reyes."_ The voice was thickly accented; the stilted, glottal boisterousness of English words on Dutch lips. _"I apologize for the additional troubles your people have encountered. It is of my view that what you have faced is detritus; the remnants of unexploded bombs my people left in our wake, as is our folly."_

"You're Alvar Hanso."

_"Yes."_ A gentle, sniffling inhale. The voice seemed very old. _"I should ask forgiveness of you as I might have your predecessor, but I have heard that the island holds no ideas of Gods now. Only humans. Regardless, I have regrets."_

"I saw all that stuff back in the day, with the Initiative. Some of 'em meant well. I think you did."

_"There are vast pamphlets written about the brick and mortar nature of the cobblestones on the road to hell."_

Hurley curled his hand around the phone, absorbing that. He looked up at the small knot of rescues talking among themselves at the edge of the sea and sand. A noise drifted to him and he looked further north to see Krish hobbling slowly between the supports of both Tsuchi and Renee Kircher. Rose trailed behind with others yet in tow, her hand in Bernard's slightly larger one. They were laughing. Krish looked worn; more exhausted than ever, but he still managed a wink and a grin for Kyra when she looked over to catch his eye.

"For what it's worth sir, I don't think we got onto that road. Isn't there also a bunch of stuff about how journeys never really end and that all the important stuff is found along it while you go?"

A little laugh came from the other end of the line, distant and tinny. _"There is, yes."_

"Then it can't ever really be a road to hell, cuz that's an ending." Rose caught his eye and he gave her a smile and a thumb's up gesture. "We're just getting started around here."

There was a long, not uncompanionable silence from the other end. _"My people will offer you whatever assistance you need and will be happy to ferry any home whom might wish the trip. You have assurances that the remaining loose ends beyond the island are well in hand. I thank your Mr. Alpert for certain advice in these matters."_

"I appreciate that. And hey, you know. Time's not out yet. You might visit here yourself sometime. Call that an invitation. All the loose ends."

There was a long, hearty laugh. _"Perhaps someday. Good luck, Mr. Reyes. Thank you for the talk."_

_. . ._

Ben watched Hurley look thoughtfully at the phone for several long moments. "You still at a loss over what to do next?"

"Yeah, dude. Even more now, I think."

"I have an idea." Hurley looked up at him, at the crooked grin. "Weenie roast."

Hurley began to laugh. "...You're frickin' unreal sometimes."

"And occasionally serious. I don't think we're gonna scare up a couple dozen servings of foie gras, camembert on toast points, and roast pheasant for the guests."

. . .

"No shit, this is an honest to god weenie roast. Whose idea was this?" Kyra hopped up on her toes to look over Krish's shoulder at the roasting pit near the island docks. "I think this is the weirdest thing I've seen." Krish turned very slowly to look down at her with a long, witheringly disbelieving look. "In, like, the last five hours. Before that it was waiting for velociraptors. I'm still kinda waiting for those."

"I've heard there's a great story involving a polar bear," Krish supplied by way of response.

"Not as good. Raptors!" She put her hands into claw shapes and grr'd at him. He shook his head and looked at the gathering.

Over thirty men and women disembarked Hanso's unnamed ship to visit for supper. A handful more had apparently volunteered to stay aboard and ensure they had rigged the _Helgus Antonius_ properly for towing. Ben and Hurley were talking to the ship's captain, animated gestures about the series of possible events waiting for the ship and its morbid cargo.

Kyra guided Krish – still fragile from the episode near the heart of the island – to a picnic table near the pit and piled four hot dogs and some island-made kettle chips onto a plate with some epicurean effort. "You made a couple for me?" Krish asked her with an arched eyebrow.

"Fuck no, man. I'm starving. Your hands work fine." She shrugged and waited for him. "You said you had something you wanted to talk about." She watched him pause for a second.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." He glanced up and smiled. "You're actually really happy right now."

She put her plate down and looked around the gathering, caught Ellis's eye for a moment. "I actually really am. You know, most of the times, I get a job and we get through it, and someone's got the worst of it. People that don't deserve it, I suppose, though I know if I really sit and think through this, this wasn't that great, either. I mean, people died today. That's still sort of..." She shrugged, picked up one of the dogs and dipped it into some stray relish.

"You feel like this was still more 'right'."

"And I guess I don't hate my role in it for a change. I mean, look at that chick and her husband." She jutted her chin towards the Humes. "They're disgusting. It's cute."

"That's good. That's the core of what you need; knowing what you do things for."

"Ah, trouble's over, so we're back to meditation class?" She grinned up at him, lopsidedly, then sobered. Krish was smiling back, but it was a peaceful, distant smile. "What? Come on, what is it?"

"I want to ask you a favor." He shrugged a little. "I think it might be unfairly hard, but you're who I'd ask."

Kyra tilted her head and licked a dollop of ketchup off her finger, beginning to feel unsettled. "Okay."

"Let me tell you, first. And why." He took a long, slow swallow, and did.


	28. The Sacred Hour

28.

_Peace – What Renee Saw – The Sacred Hour_

Nighttime on the island was slow, untrackable time; peaceful and creaking and cool with only the amble of the moon to suggest the hour. Kyra didn't know how much longer until the early dawn would crack the sky, but it seemed quite some hours yet. She shifted the barest bit, trying to not jostle Krish's head from where it lay in her lap.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.

"Yeah, just some sand felt like it shifted under my butt. I'm fine." Without really thinking about it, she gently stroked some dark hair away from his forehead. In the moonlight, she saw the crease of a smile. "You?"

"I feel good." Still the smile.

"Yeah, huh?" She laughed, but it came out a little wrong, a little too throaty. He could tell, a slender, too pale hand reached up to squeeze her arm.

"It's going to be all right," he said.

She felt a fat teardrop rebel near the corner of her left eye. "I'm sure you're right, but shit."

He squeezed her arm again, then let go and refolded his hands across his stomach.

. . .

"Jesus, it's late. You're sure it's okay I keep you up?" Renee fiddled sheepishly with a tall glass of iced tea. She flicked her gaze from Ben to Hurley and back. They were sitting in Hurley's cabin, snacking and drinking tea companionably while catching up on her findings.

It was Ben that gave her a comforting smile. "More than fine. Ghost stories and tall tales are better in the dark. Perhaps I should get some candles." The idea drew a chuckle from Hurley. "So we're caught up on the generalities of the cave. You wanted to get into what you saw during the recent... festivities."

"Yeah." She scratched her chin, lidding her eyes while she processed how she wanted to begin. After a long moment, she set her glass down and spread her hands. "Okay. You've got a cave with a _stele_ marked with Assyrian cuneiform. The language is ancient, the symbolism dates from later – still early – Egypt. The entire concept of the cave is going _downwards_ , which as I explained to the gang approximately a century ago, was only other really seen in the Osireion, which is a really strange piece of Egyptology. But it fits with what we know of the old mystery cult that sprung up around him, around both previous and later Mithraic mystery cults, and pretty much any theology that revolves around the everlasting spirit in the face of the underworld."

She clasped her hands back together. "In addition, there's runoffs all through the cave that drain all that water to other places around the island. The island is its own network, recursively underlined by the cave network within and, again, underneath the temple. The classic Khmer-style Cambodian temple, because why the fuck not, guys, right?" A quick grin. Ben reclined into the couch, watching her. She was unfazed and shrugged.

"So following the water leads into the cave network. All of it is one big happy subway to Weirdworld. Anyway, as far as the cavern itself you follow the cavern walls away from the pool, not even very far, it gets dark back there. Crazy dark. The neat thing is, if you can shine some light back there, the glyphs continue alongside the very old, very dry bodies that line some of the little nooks. Logogram languages that would take me centuries to figure out. Shit I don't think we have alphabets for anymore. This place is beyond ancient. Eventually, you find pictographs; the lore here goes further back than human tongue can really say. And the pictographs are in _great fucking shape_ for a moisture-riddled underground cave hub. Images of the sun. Images of the moon in its phases. Black and white primitive ink, I can't even guess how old and I didn't dare touch it." Renee tapped on the table between her and the island guardians for emphasis. "It's like time does nothing down there. Shit." She laughed. "Time does nothing down there, remove the qualifier. The air is pure and sweet and new."

"You found more than that." Benjamin Linus arched an eyebrow and refilled his glass from the sweating pitcher of tea.

"Oh, honey." She couldn't help a giggle. "I got a theory that couldn't pass muster with David Icke, and I believe in it totally."

. . .

Kyra inhaled a little, the brief sniffle long since gone. "So what do you think is going to happen to everyone?"

"I don't know," Krish said. He gave a slow exhale, taking some effort with the words. "I think that's a good thing. I think whatever is next for everyone is a good thing. We've all... grown a bit here, I suppose. Our weak places patched over a little."

She gave a thick swallow. "I don't feel that patched."

"Well." A little, clacking laugh. "That's my fault. It'll be better in the morning, I think. With the sun. And the others. We will all leave as friends."

"At some sort of peace."

"Mm. Maybe it'll help to take that out into the world. Maybe that's what Hurley wants." Krish shivered a little and she curled down over him protectively.

"Need a blanket?"

He tilted his head back to look up into her face. "No. I'll be fine. Not too much longer." He smiled again.

. . .

Hurley had gotten up to refill the snack bowl with some old DHARMA brand snack mix, as some sort of in joke between himself and Ben. Renee didn't trouble herself with the history there much, but an old rye chip tasted pretty much the same as a new one as far as she was concerned.

"So there's all that. Then you get way back there in the dark nooks, and it's not even anything a human hand put on the wall." She put a hand in the air. "Reference to David Icke aside, I'm not talking about aliens." She set it down again, flexed her fingers and took the excuse to keep her gaze down. She took a deep breath – while she believed in what she said, it still seemed unbelievable. "There's a root network along the walls, too. Plant roots. Tree roots. Organic material. And _all of it_ starts to form into pictographs. They grew into a way that's meant to be recognized." She glanced up into their watchful eyes. "I don't mean like maybe something could look like a horse if you're stoned and coming back from a Phish concert. I mean, full stop, that fuckin' root network is totally mimicking basic symbols – sun, moon, triangle, horizontal lines. A line figure that is unarguably meant to represent a person. Several of those, in circles. One big circle of roots, with a little nubbin of fucking moss in the center – the pool.

"Did someone shape the material that way? Our logic assumes so. Someone in the past kept and cultivated the cave. But the island isn't operating on our normal everyday logic. I don't want to say either way. Maybe someone started it and the island kept it. I don't know. Both of you know the weirdest thing about this place and I figured it out for myself. The island itself is alive."

Hurley nodded to her. "Yeah. It is." He said it matter-of-factly, like repeating a _Jeopardy!_ answer.

"But here's what I'm telling you. It's not just alive. It's _life,_ Hurley. All this shit about axis mundi, the heart of the world, of that crazy ass statue of maternal Tawaret, that tapestry -" She ran her fingers busily through her hair. "This island is the very heart of 'Mother'. The deepest, secret beating heart. That's my theory. Mother Earth, the semiotic concept we gave to the planet through a thousand belief systems. Mother is alive. Mother is here, and everywhere, that's why the island can effect change in its chosen people elsewhere, why there's other powerful _pulses_ , not truly a 'source' like here. Not as strong, but you can still feel the beat. And... Mother really does love us and wants us safe. As safe and protected as her own heart, and given a thousand chances to change for the better."

She grinned. "How sappy and fucked up is that?"

"But death is here, too." Ben looked evenly at her.

"Well, it is part of the balance. Everything turns back to nature." She shrugged back. "Sometimes Momma gotta smack a few, too. Love is unconditional; it isn't blind."

He grunted, a noncommittal noise, then glanced to Hurley. He was nodding. "I don't know for sure... but it feels right. Like, even if it isn't? It's not a bad way to think."

"Always the cycle, light and dark, but it's always for love of life. Just, you know. Life ends. Maybe not the journey, though." She grinned, then stopped. "Shit, I don't want to think about that right now."

Hurley reached across the table and patted her hand. "It's okay. I'm glad Kyra talked to you, though. That's a big step."

"She going to take this alright? They got to be friends."

"She'll be okay." He smiled. "I think we all need some time to really chew this stuff over.."

. . .

Kyra continued to stroke Krish's forehead. He'd grown much quieter in the last hour or so. He'd told her a couple of stories about his family, boisterous Irish meeting reserved Indian. School stories. Even a little bit about Hindu philosophy. Then he'd resettled in her lap and let her talk instead. She was at a loss for a while, then dug around for what she remembered of her own childhood – not the various facades of half truths she used to build a dozen different identities for a dozen different types of cover. She talked about a puppy when she was a kid, one that had run away and then was found again, a year later and a year bigger and how she had cried when the dog ran up to her, excited to be home. She'd believed for certain the dog was dead; her loving but brusque father convinced of it.

She hadn't thought of the dog – Sally – in years, and had burst into tears for a moment. Sally hadn't been long-lived, but she had been a happy creature. It was the last pet Kyra had owned.

Finally they waited in companionable silence. Stars began to disappear into the twilight hours before dawn. The nighttime creatures settled to wait for the day, the daytime insects had not yet woken. Everything was in peaceful silence.

Kyra could hear only the soft sound of her own breath, and then felt it catch in her throat. She was afraid to look down for a long moment, feeling his hair between her fingers. Finally, she took a soft, sad inhale and turned her face down to Krish's.

He looked like he was sleeping.


	29. Epilogue: Samsara

_Epilogue: Samsara_

In the end, it was only Krish that would be cremated on the island, as he had requested. At dawn, Hurley and Ben had gone to the beach to help Kyra move the body and prepare its nest of jungle flowers. The other traditions would be left aside; the island wind would take care of the scattering of ashes. In quiet tones, they made arrangements for a small gathering for the island's little knot of friends later at dusk. Save for Renee Kircher, the others hadn't known of Krish's decision to finally rest until Hurley broke the news to them.

Hanso's ship had since left, hauling its defused cargo to Korea to be examined discreetly by international authorities and added to charges against Paik. Penelope and her family had gone with them, though Richard stayed behind on the island. Temporarily, he claimed. Just to visit. Hurley had an idea that he'd found a few more things to make peace with – or people, judging by Ben's wary, wry looks at the previous advisor.

After dusk, Renee, Tsuchi, and Ellis stayed by Kyra in the light of a small campfire near the cabins. Hurley had given her a big hug and gone off into the jungle for some private reason. Renee did her best to keep things light by bringing up particularly strange or embarrassing tidbits from anthropology or her own archaeological work – a rude discussion of classical erotic netsuke pieces turned Tsuchi bright red for most of an hour. It was a good time even if bittersweet, and Kyra's laughter was genuine.

It felt like last call before the bar closed. Renee brought up, a bit hesitantly, her plans to leave the island soon to work on getting access to some pre-Assyrian rarities and compare them with her notes. Tsuchi followed up by saying he wanted to visit his family and work on translating his abilities to something that would draw him out of the house more frequently.

"Let me know how comfortable you are with that," Kyra said. "I've got a lot of company contacts that love a competent translator."

"You'll still work with them?" Ellis asked her. "You seemed pretty tired of what you do."

"Well." She shrugged, then looked sheepish. "Actually, Ben's offered me a chance to stay on through Mittelos as a security consultant." She'd been surprised by the offer. She surprised herself further by accepting almost immediately. "I'll still do a lot of travel. Probably going to visit my family before I hunker down with that... Krish's too." Nobody commented on the thick swallow that accompanied that, though Renee patted her knee by instinct. "And we'll probably always have some work for a translator ourselves, too." She grinned and slung an arm around Tsuchi's shoulder, giving it a friendly thump with her loose fist. "How about you, Doc?"

"Mittelos pays the bills, now and next, hallelujah and amen." He grinned, ran dark fingers through his salt and pepper hair. "I got a few ideas for some projects."

Renee looked from face to face. "We're all gonna keep in touch, right? No weird Breakfast Club shit."

They agreed, laughing – no Breakfast Club shit.

. . .

Hurley didn't need to be alone in the jungle for long. Close to midnight, a small flock of frightened jungle birds took to the air with a collective discordant squawk, insulted by the sharp cracking noise that broke the sky. He bit his lip for a moment, then looked towards the direction of the gunshot.

If he chose, he could find Mittelwerk's body easily or let someone help him take care of it. Or, his other choice, let the body decay rapidly into the island, forgotten as much as Krish would be remembered by his friends. He thought about Dr. Kircher's ideas about the island, about the cycle of life and death, and about his friends and the danger they had come so close to. He stood thinking for a long while, long enough for the insulted wildlife to settle back into place and resume their evening chorus. Then, he shoved his hands into his pockets and went back to the cabins to wait for Ben.

. . .

Ben didn't keep him waiting long. He'd parted company with Richard with a great deal to mull over, mostly concepts of redemption and karma. Richard would leave with the others in the next couple of days, and he made a note to make arrangements with Lapidus in the morning. On asking about Richard's next move, the ex-advisor had laughed. "Someone gave me the idea once to buy a vineyard. I'm seriously considering it."

Ben shrugged the thoughts away as he saw Hurley's silhouette on his porch. A big hand raised in greeting and he lifted his head in response. He picked up his pace. "Something on your mind, Hugo?"

"Still got a few loose ends knocking around my skull, dude." He poked the side of his head self-deprecatingly. "I know, I know. That's life, there's always gonna be a buttload of those. But I'm thinkin' about a couple more immediate things."

Ben clasped his hands together and leaned against a tall porch support beam. "I'm listening."

"I think Hanso should help us shut down those last few DHARMA doohickeys, because seriously, if I see another box of DHARMA chex mix get dropped on the island, I'm gonna barf."

Ben laughed silently. "Easy enough."

"And... I think we need to go get Walt."

He arched an eyebrow at that. "He's grown now; I'm to understand he's not well."

"...Yeah. He's kinda like where I was when we went back." Hurley shifted his weight. "I really want to fix that. I think he's important to this place." He didn't say the rest of what he thought, which was that there were times he felt his role was more temporary than Ben was ready to hear. More than anything else, he wanted the option to see his ma more than he really could under his current role. "I think we owe him a few things."

Ben looked away. "Likely."

"So, you know. Like I told Hanso. It doesn't ever really end, but I got a lot of ideas about making the next spin better."

Ben looked back, then reached out and squeezed Hurley's arm. "Good. I have faith in you, Hugo." He smiled, tired but earnest. "Let's go do what we can."

. . .

_Mendocino, Northern California_

_There are four women and four children playing in a park during a beautiful light summer day. Claire Littleton holds her growing, feisty son Aaron who is reaching past her grip to his adoptive sister, Ji Yeon Kwon. Ji Yeon can't stop giggling at the faces the bright-haired little boy makes, squirming away from Kate to crawl to him across jade green grass._

_Charlie is tottering near his own mother, fingers in his mouth as he watches the two play the face game, but he turns occasionally to catch the shy eye of Clementine, who has only met Aaron before today. She has a stuffed bear clutched in her arms, a bear with a corny Texas kerchief tied at its throat. It was a gift from her daddy, given sheepishly, and it was her favorite thing in the entire world. Cassidy encourages her to go meet the two new faces and with more than a little hesitation, she does so. Aaron immediately burbles happily and pulls her in with a tubby child's hand to touch Ji Yeon's smooth, dark hair. Charlie begins to giggle and plops on his butt. Together, the children begin to talk in their private language that only other young children can decipher._

_Close by, on a park bench, two men are having a rambling discussion about beer, baseball, golf, and the kids. They are collectively aware of their own cliché nature at this moment, and accept it with a set of wry grins. It beats the stress of the last few years. Desmond and James fall into a companionable silence, aware that there will be many beers over the next few years, as families find an excuse to visit each other._

_Perhaps in time, the children will learn about the island. But meanwhile, it is certain they have learned about love._

_~Fin_

" _Curving back within myself I create again and again."_

_~ The Bhagavad Gita_

_6/10-5/13. Namaste!_


End file.
